Who's The Wincest Of Them All?
by Lampito
Summary: As in, whose writing is most excruciatingly wince-inducing? Sam & Dean are about to find out when they attend a fanfic convention to stop murders happening. As if that's not bad enough, they have to go undercover to blend in, which needs some serious disguises. And comfortable foundation garments (no underwires). (NO SLASH HERE you naughty naughty shippers, just a joke title.)
1. Chapter 1

Aaaaaaargh! Aaaaaaaaargh! I HATE plot bunnies!

This little #^%* of a rodent has been lurking around the empty plot bunny pen for months, with nothing but a terrible title and a single sentence description of a possible story. A very short sentence. And now, as I'm trying to read something work-related the little WRETCH leaped out of my tea mug, sank its teeth into my ankle, and WILL NOT LET GO. Nor will it offer any suggestions more than the most bare bones, rudimentary story (doesn't even quality as a plot yet). It has done this in the full knowledge that I am attempting to wrangle Jackie-Joy, the Most Uncooperative Diva Bunny In The Universe who is supposed to be dictating 'Old Dogs, Old Tricks'.

I really, really hate plot bunnies.

But we know that here in the Jimiverse, giving bunnies an airing, no matter how unhelpful they appear to be, can sometimes prompt them into dictating another chapter or two, and maybe even coming up with a storyline, so in the spirit of indulging the loony leporids, I present to you the first chapter, with the thoroughly appalling title of...

**WHO'S THE WINCEST OF THEM ALL?**

**Disclaimer: **They're not mine, I just throw them to the fangirls and run in the opposite direction.

**Rating:** T. Because Dean and words.

**Summary:** As in, who can be the most excruciatingly wince-inducing? To their horror, Sam and Dean are about to find out, when they have to attend a fan-fiction convention to find out what's causing some of the participants to start killing each other. As if that's not bad enough, they have to go under-cover deeply enough to blend in without raising suspicion, which will need some seriously convincing disguises. And suitably comfortable foundation garments. And possibly plenty of mind bleach afterwards. The w-word is just a terrible pun in the title, no slash here, go on, move along, no yaoi, nothing to see, go about your business...

**Blame:** I don't know, but when I find out whose fault this story is, I will be most put out.

* * *

**Chapter One**

Sam could never be described as a bible-basher, or a god-botherer. He 'believed' in God – he believed in gods – the same way he believed in gravity, or carbohydrates, or the existence of sadness – not as an article of faith, but as the knowledge of something that existed.

(Dean was adamant that he didn't believe in God. "Just because He exists don't mean I'm gonna go around believing in Him," the older Winchester would snort disdainfully, "It's like believing in angels, I don't do that, because it'll just give 'em big heads and encourage them.")

But he was probably a more careful and thoughtful student of holy books than most people, especially the strident ones who liked to wave them about in public and use their personal narrow interpretation of it to justify persecution of people they didn't like very much. The nature of his brain, and the nature of his life, had turned him into something of an autodidactic scholar of such writings, picking them apart the same way he would a book to write an essay or assignment; they were not so much spiritual guides as tool, albeit cryptic ones, to help him do his job.

Currently, he was considering the Ten Commandments. In particular, The Seventh Commandment:

_You will not kill._

It was all in the translation, of course, he mused, in the interpretation of context in which the original was written. From Aramaic, to Hebrew, to Greek, to Latin, out of Latin in the 1500s, to modern English, with the notes, impressions, musings, mores, opinions and human mistakes of each translator, it had changed and evolved like the society reading it. The original meaning of the earliest Hebrew text could be interpreted as 'kill', or 'murder', or possibly even 'destroy' or 'break'. It had clearly been intended to refer to the taking of human life – the difficulty was, of course, as with everything, context.

'Thou shalt not do murder', an order against unlawful killing, might be closer to what was originally intended, given that there was plenty of actual killing going on in the Old Testament, sometimes with God's approval, sometimes at His instigation, to the point where Sam had, as a child, had mental pictures of Him sitting on a cloud, egging His people on, possibly, with a large bowl of celestial popcorn resting in His lap and wearing a shirt reading FIGHT FIGHT ISRAELITE!. The Good Book condoned the death penalty for certain crimes, and recognised the inevitability of death in warfare, so it did seem a bit odd to Sam that the King James version, with its sonorously lyrical and rolling passages intended to be read aloud to instruct and uplift, should make what appeared to be such a small yet seemingly fundamental change: 'Thou shalt not kill'.

Was there a closet pacifist amongst the teams of translators who had laboured away over the text? Did the overseeing committee, even King James I, assume that there would always be a good supply of clergy to explain and interpret the scholars' work to ordinary people?

He sometimes thought it was a pity that people were so readily prepared to start bashing each other over the head about The Whole Religion Thing, picking and choosing and twisting the bits from their preferred publications that suited them and ignoring others, when the gist of so many supposedly holy books contained some pretty simple messages to all of humanity about getting along with your fellow human beings. Yep, he was pretty sure that if he was given the job, he could boil it down to a single page of text for the convenience of everybody.

_Don't hurt each other. Somebody else's life is as important as yours. Look after each other. You will always have differences, but be civilised about it – worry about your own morality. Don't rush to judgement. Don't be idjits, don't be assbutts. This tiny blue planet is your only home in all of Creation. Be good to each other._

_You will not kill._

His eyes slid sideways to his brother.

_Unless your brother is doing his absolute best to drive you to murder, then it's probably okay._

Dean was belting out 'If You Want Blood' for the fourth time in less than three hours, having been listening to one of his AC/DC tapes continuously since they'd left their last motel room. Sam glanced back at the two dogs, Lemmy and Lars, snoozing peacefully on the back seat, and marvelled once more at their ability to snooze through Dean's singing. It must be because they were part Hellhound, he thought, if you were a Hellhound, you'd have to be able to ignore the wailings of the tormented and despairing Damned in the lowest Circles of Hell. Which was pretty much what Dean's singing could sound like.

_Because justifiable homicide has precedents in the earliest teachings of the Christian faith, for all sorts of transgressions. They didn't have amplified music back then, but I'm pretty sure that if they did 'Heavy Rock In An Enclosed Space' would've been pretty close to the top of the list of things you could be stoned to death for. After blasphemy, before bearing false witness, probably about equal with adultery._

"It's criminal, there ought to be a law," Dean sang loudly (for a given value of 'sing').

_Yes, yes there should_, Sam agreed silently.

"Criminal, there ought to be a whole lot more…"

_Certainly some sort of prohibition on assault by music._

"You get nothin' for nothing, tell me who can you trust…"

_Thou shalt not sing at thy brother in a manner that be tuneless, grating, and above all unnecessarily loud, lest thou damageth his hearing, and discomfort his mind._

"We got what you want, and you got the lust…"

_Thou shalt not drum upon the steering wheel of thy car until thy brother beginneth to worry that thou dost not actually have control of thy vehicle, in which he too is a passenger._

"If you want blood, you got it…"

_Thou certainly shalt not remove thy hands from the wheel for a quick strum of air guitar to the consternation of thy brother._

"If you want blood, you got it…"

_If thou insisteth upon listening to hard rock for hours at a time, verily and forsooth shalt thou at least change the damned tape occasionally, not listen to the same fucking one over and over and over…_

Yep, it all boiled down to the interpretation of what constituted justified killing.

"Blood on the streets," howled Dean happily, "Blood on the rocks, blood in the gutter, every last drop…"

"Jesus Dean, if you don't knock it off, I'll give you blood in the gutter," growled Sam. "Yours. Every last drop."

Dean turned his most obnoxiously infuriating grin on his little brother. "Careful there Sammy," he warned, "Don't anger the Gods Of Rock while I'm worshiping."

"You don't sound like you're worshiping," Sam snapped, "You sound like you're being disembowelled. By somebody with not much knowledge of human anatomy, but plenty of blunt knives."

Dean's sunny expression didn't change. "I don't expect you to understand," he said serenely, "After the brain damage you sustained when you were younger."

"Brain damage? What the hell?" demanded Sam.

"You know," Dean went on airily, "Education. School, then college. It damaged your brain. You took it all too seriously, and it turned you into a long-haired emo girly freak."

Sam stared at his brother. "Are you implying that academic endeavour turns people into 'long haired girly freaks'?" he demanded.

"It's a sad side-effect of a brain that thinks too much," Dean sighed melodramatically.

"Ronnie could've gone to university," Sam pointed out, "She won a scholarship to study engineering, before she was bitten. I've never heard you call her a long-haired girly freak."

"She's a long-haired freak," Dean agreed, "But she aint girly. I've seen angry beef steers that were girlier than her."

"I dare you to say that to her face sometime," Sam taunted smugly. "You're just jealous because her arms are bigger than yours."

"Actually, screw steers, I've seen men who look girlier than her."

"Oh yeah," Sam smiled, "And you're one of 'em."

Dean rounded on his brother. "No I aint!" he shot back.

"Oh, I'm afraid you are," simpered Sam, "Those cheekbones, those eyes, those eyelashes, those lips, you'd have made a beautiful girl." Then, because he couldn't resist twisting the knife a bit, he continued. "People used to say that to Mom, when you were a baby. They'd think you were a girl, and then say what a shame it was that you weren't because you had such a pretty face…"

"And no doubt they used to ask her if you were a baby sasquatch," Dean sniffed with disdainful dignity, "Anyway, I'm secure enough in my masculinity not to care about what anybody might have said about me when I was a baby. I laugh about it now. Ha ha. See? That's me laughing about it."

"Well, good for you," chuckled Sam. "Although, seriously, you have got a real purty mouth…"

"Shut up, you freak!" yelped Dean. "Stop bein' a perv, and do something useful. Find our next job."

"I've been workin' on it," Sam told him, "I might have something, but I'll need to do a lot more digging before I can say for sure. Unexplained sudden deaths."

"Sudden deaths?" echoed Dean, all business.

"Yeah," Sam confirmed, "A handful of unconnected women killing each other, and then a couple of weeks later, it happens again in another town."

"Whoa," went Dean, "So, what happened? Knitting circle gettin' out of hand? Martial arts and crafts taken too far? Frying pans at close quarters?"

"That's what I have to establish," Sam gave his brother, "Find out what happened, and see if it's a job for us."

"Are these women hot?" Dean's eyebrows performed one of their amazingly sinuous and articulate waggling routines.

"Well, most of 'em were young, I guess," Sam shrugged. "If I'm honest, well, yeah, some of 'em were hot."

"You can do more researchin' at Bobby's," Dean instructed seriously, "And find me some hot women to rescue, while I spend some time with my number one girl," he patted the dash, "And the most awesome kid in the world."

"Of course," Sam rolled his eyes but smiled. Like every other parent on the planet, Dean was convinced that his son, RJ, was the most awesome kid in the world. After all, Sam felt the same way about his daughter Frankie. "And now that he's walking by himself, he's the most annoying kid in the world."

"Hey, don't diss my wingman," growled Dean. "He's a big help in the garage."

Sam gave his brother a level look. "Dean, when he's 'helping' you in the garage, 'helping' usually consists of grabbing a tool, finding something noisy to bash it against, and getting covered in grease."

"Well, he's makin' an early start," Dean said defensively, "He's gonna be a great grease monkey. He can tell a screwdriver from a wrench, and he knows the torque spanner."

"Recognises it, yes," Sam agreed, "But he can't even lift it yet."

"See? That's just how talented he is," Dean stated with satisfaction.

Sam sighed, and decided to let it go. Neither of them liked to freeload when they were at Bobby's and Dean had always put in a lot of time in the yard towards earning their keep, but since RJ had arrived, spending time in the yard often degenerated to training around with his boy, watching RJ explore the junk or roll around with the dogs. Bobby didn't mind; it was a wonder that RJ had ever learned to walk at all, considering the amount of time he spent sitting on his practically-grandfather's knee. Anyway, spending time with RJ would put Dean in a good mood. Which would probably smooth the way when he explained the job he'd found to his big brother.

As Dean returned to his AC/DC sing-along, Sam thought over the job he'd been researching. He had more details that he was letting on: yes, the women were young, and yes, some of them had qualified as what Dean would consider 'hot'. And he was already pretty sure that it was a situation needing the attention of Hunters. But the women concerned had not been meeting up for stitch and bitch sessions, or play group, or to plan animal activism activities, or plot terrorist attacks against large oil companies. And they weren't witches, meeting to plot and scheme and cast spells and meddle with the lives of other for their own twisted and evil amusement.

No, it was much worse than that, and he was not looking forward to tackling this job.

And he suspected that Dean would be even less happy about it, once he'd been appraised of the details.

From the Book of Exodus: _Thou shalt not kill._

The Book of Leviticus extended that to: _Do not stand idly by when you can act to save a life_.

Even if the person is undeserving, if you can save a human being, do so. If they are in danger, and you can help them, then save their lives. No matter how depraved you may think them, a murderer, a war criminal, a drug lord…

From the Book of Sam: _Even writers of fanfiction._

Sighing inwardly, he took comfort from another verse from the Book of Sam: _But if thou wishest to take a teeny weeny bit of amusement from thy brother's discomfort about a job, go ahead._

* * *

I have no idea what this bunny's name is, but when I find out, I'm going to make a wax effigy of it. Wretched thing. Feed it reviews, and we might get more out of it. We might even make Jackie-Joy jealous, and get her dictating more enthusiastically too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Sam and RJ were sitting in Bobby's study, doing research. This consisted of Sam tapping at the laptop and consulting a couple of books whilst making notes, while RJ sat on Sam's lap, pointed at the occasional picture, and indicated any possible images of interest by whacking Sam with Stanley the knitted toy honey badger.

"Beebee!" RJ announced Bobby's arrival by yelling and throwing Stanley at the old man.

"Idjit," smiled Bobby, stooping carefully to pick up the toy and return it to the demanding child. "Dean says it's amazin' the boy ever learned to walk, he spends so much time sittin' on laps."

"Well, he likes to think he's helping, I guess," shrugged Sam as the child sucked thoughtfully on one of Stanley's legs, then offered it to Sam with an inquiring noise. "No, thanks buddy, I'll pass on the spit-soaked honey badger."

"Meh," said RJ philosophically before shoving the toy back into his own mouth.

"So, what you got here?" asked Bobby. "Any idea what you're dealin' with?"

"Not exactly," Sam replied gloomily, "But enough detail to know that Dean is not gonna like it. Hell, _I'm_ not gonna like it."

"Oh?"

Sam's face blanched a little. "There have been a series of writers' conventions," he explained. "And after a number of these conventions, women who've attended them turn murderous, and kill other attendees."

"So, somebody who don't like reading much," humphed Bobby.

"Well, it's a particular type of writing," Sam went on, "These are conventions for writers of fanfics."

"Fanfics?" echoed Bobby.

"Fan fiction," Sam clarified glumly, "They're stories written by other people, using the characters, story canons and fictional 'verses of other authors. Sometimes they stick very closely to the spirit of the stories, and sometimes, well, they don't so much bend the 'rules' as wrench them back and forth violently until they shatter completely."

"Well, I can understand how some people might get a bit cranky about havin' their favourite books rewritten," Bobby mused. "Especially if the writin' aint that good."

"The thing is," Sam swallowed, "The thing is, all the writers that have been affected have been writers – female writers – who produce their own stories based on Carver Edlund's 'Supernatural' books."

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "Carver Edlund? As in, the Prophet Chuck? Winchester Gospel? The guy who calls Dean to complain whenever the boy entertains a new lady friend in a particularly, uh, friendly fashion?"

"The very same," sighed Sam, "And while in theory, given some of the stuff they write – God, some of it is beyond terrifying – I'm not necessarily in favour of anything that stops them, I think condoning the murder of fanfic authors is a step too far." He made a sad little noise. "Crap – it's like Ronnie says, some days, a conscience is a terrible burden to bear…"

"So, wimmen are writin' stories about you and your brother," Bobby summarised, "Then some of 'em are killin' each other." He paused and eyed Sam thoughtfully. "What kind of, uh, stories do they write?"

The face that Sam turned to Bobby was the haunted expression of a man who has dangled over The Abyss of Hell by his jockstrap and only just escaped to tell the tale. "It's… probably better if you don't know."

Bobby gave his practically-son a long look. "Sam," he began, "I might be an old man now, I'm a more-or-less grandpa, no less, but I'm a Hunter. I've faced down, shot down and taken down some of the nastiest, meanest, deadliest, most vicious, most brutal, most terrifyin', most evil sumbitches who ever walked, crawled or slimed on God's green Earth. I seen things most people aint seen, and wouldn't want to – I'm a Hunter, and I've seen 'em so ordinary people don't have to see 'em. It's what we do, Sam, we face these things and give 'em the finger, so other people can sleep safe. Knowledge is power, and ignorance can be fatal." He put a hand on Sam's shoulder. "The body is failin' me, by the rat powerin' the wheel runnin' the brain aint ready to give up yet. These stories could be – must be – the connection. Let me help you, son."

Sam gave Bobby a long look, then opened another window.

"Start your computer. I'll send you some links to get you started."

"I'll make us some coffee," offered Bobby, turning for the kitchen.

"You might want a tot of something extra in it," Sam announced as gloomily as any doomsaying haruspex examining a particularly inauspicious liver, "And look under the sink, see if we've got any mind bleach."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby and Sam were both reading when the sound of a large V8 engine rumbling to restored life came to them.

"Oh," said Bobby faintly, "Sounds like your brother got that Buick runnin'."

"Dada!" yelled RJ, bouncing up and down on Bobby's knee. "Voom! Voom!"

Bobby looked down at the boy. "You know, most youngsters his age are scared of loud noises," he mused.

"That's Dean's spawn," Sam observed. "He'd probably shart himself in delight if he saw a nuke detonate."

"Dow! Dow!" RJ whacked Bobby impatiently with Stanley. "Dow! Now!"

"At once, sir," grumbled Bobby, moving to let the child slide awkwardly down to the floor, where the boy found his feet and toddled over to where Lars, Sam's dog, was lying placidly on the rug. "Out!" RJ shouted at the dog. "Out! Out! Now!"

"He really got his daddy's patience," Bobby noted, as the dog let out a yawn, got to his feet and gave the child's face a lick.

"Should we really be letting them do that?" asked Sam, watching as Lars headed for the door, the giggling toddler holding onto his tail and following him on determined little legs.

"It don't seem to do any harm," shrugged Bobby, "Unlike these, er, well I hesitate to call 'em 'stories', some o' these could scar a body for life…"

"I mean, how the hell do they even manage it?" Sam wondered out loud.

"I guess nobody ever told 'em it shouldn't be possible," Bobby suggested. "And 'shouldn't' aint really a word that matters much around a dog with Hellhound heritage, or, dare I add, a Winchester. Don't worry, he'll have his father and the dogs outside to watch him."

"I guess," sighed Sam, turning back to the ghastly text before him.

Lars made his way to the outside door, and disappeared right through it.

Hanging onto the dog's tail and giggling, RJ went with him.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dean looked up from under the hood of the car he'd coaxed back to life when he heard his son's voice. "Dada! Dada! Daaaadaaaaa!"

"Hey, Tiger," Dean smiled, as RJ plopped down on the porch and waved Stanley the honey badger by way of greeting. "You do the thing with the door again?"

"Dow!" RJ demanded imperiously, waving Stanley at the steps, which were for the time being beyond his little legs. Dow! Dow!"

"Uh-huh, just give me a second here, RJ…"

"Dow!"

"Sure, RJ, but Daddy's busy just now, just wait a sec…"

"Doooooooow!"

Lemmy, who had been slouching comfortably watching Dean work, stood up and headed for the stairs. With the air of one who has seen – or, in this case, heard – it all before, he carefully took hold of the back of RJ's pants.

"DOOOOOOOW!" instructed RJ as Lemmy's large ears began to flap.

"Ah, shit, Lem, don't indulge him," sighed Dean.

Lemmy' ears flapped faster and faster, taking on a businesslike hum, until the dog, with RJ dangling from his mouth, rose very slightly off the porch.

"It took him long enough to do the walkin' thing," complained Dean, as Lars got behind his bigger brother and nudged at him, pushing him forward into the air, just far enough to clear the stairs. Dean sighed; Lemmy had the whole hover thing happening, but, like RJ tackling stairs, the concept of forward thrust seemed beyond him.

"Dow!" RJ hooted excitedly as Lemmy's ears dropped a tone, and the two of them descended gently back to the ground, where RJ scrambled to his feet and ran clumsily to his father, arms out. "Up! Up!"

"You two better not ever do that in front of a civilian," frowned Dean, patting Lemmy as he reached down to scoop up his son. RJ giggled, and patted his face by way of greeting, offering a leg of his knit toy. "No, uh, tell ya what, I'll just wait for lunch."

"Voom! Voom!" enthused RJ, waving at the engine. "Wren'! Wren'!"

"Well, okay," Dean proffered the small wrench that had been RJ's favourite toy since he had been delivered to the Winchesters, "But don't you go bangin' that on anythin' here – this poor old girl has had a hard enough life, she don't need you dentin' anything."

RJ was content to suck on his wrench and wave it at the engine, as Dean went about the business of doing what he could with one hand, explaining to his son as he went. RJ hooted and giggled, and made helpful 'Voom voom' noises. It was slow going, but Dean didn't mind; not only did he get to spend some fun time with his kid, but when RJ inevitably got covered in car grunge, Sam would pull an epic Bitchface™ every time.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Well that's certainly… unexpected," announced Bobby, looking up from the screen with a vaguely bewildered expression.

"Expect it," Sam sighed in resignation. "Whatever it is, expect it. Expect the unexpected, and then some."

"I aint just talkin' about them wimmen who write slasher fics," Bobby said.

"Slash," Sam corrected. "So called because that's how they designate the relationship that's gonna be in the story: Person A-slash-Person B."

"I thought it was because it might be enough to make a body want to do it to his wrists if he found himself in on o' these stories," Bobby muttered.

"Be fair, they don't know we're real," Sam pointed out. "As far as they're concerned, they're writing fantasy about people who don't really exist, so from that viewpoint, it's a harmless pastime." He paused. "Well, except for Becky, but she's clearly mentally unbalanced and creepy and evil."

"You ever decide you wanna salt an' burn her, son, count me in," rumbled Bobby,who'd needed another tot of hard liquor after his close encounter with Becky's website 'More Than Brothers'. "But besides that, some of it's… I mean, this one here, where you and Dean are dogs. Actually, there's some damned fine artwork for that. Or this one, where you're cats."

"I don't think George would approve of that," Sam grinned, referring to the little stray ginger queen who had made the yard her home, treating Singer Salvage as her palace and the humans there, when she deigned to encounter them, as her servants.

"Then there's this one, where you're mermen," Bobby went on, "Or this one, where you're dolphins, which I guess is a logical progression from mermen…"

"Do not use the word 'logic' in the same sentence that mentions a story with us as dolphins," grated Sam between clenched teeth.

"Or this one, where you're angels… or demons… or werewolves… or psychopaths… or hamsters…"

"I don't wanna know," wailed Sam.

"What I'm gettin' at is that some o' these girls have got pretty amazing imagination," Bobby said.

"Well, yes, imagination," Sam conceded grudgingly, "But it's not always good, is it? The guy who invented the guillotine had imagination. They guy who invented nerve gas had imagination. Whoever invented email spam had imagination. Whoever invented muzak had imagination. Whoever invented _Jersey Shore_ had imagination. Having imagination does not always add to the sum of human happiness and well-being, Bobby…"

The outer kitchen door banged open, and the sound of two dogs and two Winchesters barging their way back into the house announced that Dean had come in for lunch.

"Hey there, ladies," he grinned, wandering into the study.

"Sama!" RJ greeted his uncle, and threw Stanley at him.

"Christ, Dean," Sam scowled, shooting his brother a Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust) as he retrieved the toy for his nephew, "How the hell does he get covered in that shit?"

"It's only to be expected that a mechanic will get a little dirty," Dean replied.

"Dean, he's not eighteen months old yet! The closest he gets to 'mechanic' is whacking things with that wrench!"

"Well, he's a, you know, a proto-mechanic," Dean clarified. "He's gonna be one. So naturally, he's gonna get a bit of grease on his hands."

"Dean, he's covered in it! What did you let him do, crawl around under the engine to look at the interesting bits?"

"There are lots of interesting bits under a car," Dean said defensively. "Anyway, we've come in for lunch. Right, buddy?"

"Lun! Lun!" enthused RJ, waving Stanley and bouncing in his father's arms. "Lun! Pibi! Pibi! Peeeeeee Beeeeeeee!"

"You idjits get cleaned up before you go anywhere near the kitchen," rumbled Bobby, foregoing the pretence of spiking his coffee and taking a drink from a hip flask.

"Hey, you gonna share that?" asked Dean brightly.

"No," Bobby grumped, "I will need this to help me forget." He paused. "Actually, I think I'd probably need a lobotomy to help me forget."

"I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy," shrugged Dean, "Forget what?"

Sam sighed deeply, and turned to his brother. "Dean, I think I've found us a job. But I'm warning you, you are not gonna like it."

"What job?" asked Dean. "Oh, hey, is this the one with the hot women getting murdered? If there's hot women, count me in!"

"Why don't we thrash out details after lunch," suggested Bobby smoothly.

"Good idea," grinned Dean, heading upstairs with RJ, who was still professing his love for PB sandwiches at the top of his voice.

"He's not gonna like it any more after lunch," warned Sam.

"Mebbe not," agreed Bobby serenely, "But I don't care about him – I find that dealin' with any sort of crisis, whether it's a car crash, a tornado, a disaster of Biblical proportions, the end of the world, or either of you with your panties in a bunch is easier on a full stomach. So let's eat."

* * *

Still not sure what this plot bunny's name is - could it be Becky? Or Chuck? Or Edward (after Ted Bulwer-Lytton, he of 'It was a dark and stormy night' fame and inspiration for the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest for the worst opening sentence for a story)? Any ideas?

'Never work with children or animals' goes the maxim, but The Denizens seem to like them so much. The bunny is still undecided about whether RJ should accompany the Winchesters on this Hunt, whether he could be their secret weapon, somehow...

Feed this little bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious PB Sandwiches Served Up In The Kitchen Of Life To Fortify You Against The Onslaught Of The Frighteningly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality!


	3. Chapter 3

Oh, I has had teh sick quite badly, as in, bronchitis-bordering-on-pneumonia badly. Blerg. Typing is just too tiring. But this little plot bunny - his name, according to LeeMarieJack, is Alfredo-Constanza, aka Alfie-Con - managed to convince me to write another chapter. Zoiks, sounds like I've got a Mob bunny on my case this time; maybe he'll just make me offers that I can't refuse...

Anyway, as you read this story, bear in mind that, in the Jimiverse, we encourage everybody to play together nicely, because really we're all just here for the lulz. Nobody gets sent to Hell for writing slash, if that's your thang. However, if your writing is appallingly ghastly, no matter what genre you prefer, you are headed Down South - the moment you die, the Spellhounds will come to drag you away. (See what I did there?)

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Usually, Sam derived a small stab of satisfaction from being right about something, especially pertaining to his brother. However, under the circumstances, knowing that he was right didn't make the aftermath any easier, or Dean's reaction any less melodramatic.

The Living Sex God's face went from Leer and Cheer and Cavalier to Sneer to Fear to Get Outta Here as Sam explained what he'd found out about a situation that required the attention of Hunters, and it became clear that it was not so much hot women writing stories needing saving from murder as stories needing saving from women murdering writing.

"Who cares?" humphed Dean, waving his arms around, "A bunch of women writin' _those_ stories, and some of 'em end up dead, what's the big deal?"

"Dean, it _is_ a big deal," Sam rolled his eyes, "What's happening isn't natural."

"You're tellin' me," snorted Dean, "The sort of things they write about, they aint at all natural, I mean, they do know that we're straight, right?"

"Dean, that's not what I meant…"

"And it's clear in the books that we're brothers, yeah?"

"That's not what I'm getting at…"

Although given that hair and the way you're so frightened of the opposite sex, I can see why they might get the idea that you bat for the other team, totally understandable mistake, but we're still brothers…"

"Dean!" Sam snapped, shooting his brother a stern _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "This is a job for Hunters."

"Why intervene?" whined Dean.

"Because," Sam answered through clenched teeth, "These women are not monsters, they are human beings."

"Says you," muttered Dean.

"Idjit," growled Bobby, slapping Dean upside the head, "Your brother's right. Just because they're doin' somethin' you don't understand and don't like, that don't mean they're monsters. Just because you don't like 'em, that don't mean they don't need saving."

"Saving people, Hunting things, the family business, ringing any bells?" prompted Sam. "These women are the victims here."

"Has anybody stopped to think that actually _we_ might be the victims?" Dean said plaintively.

"Look, as far as they know, we're not even real," Sam pointed out, "All they're doing is writing stories, for their own amusement, about a couple of guys who aren't even real."

"All they're doing?" Dean sounded incredulous. "_All_ they're doing? That's like saying, oh, don't mind that little tinpot fundamentalist dictator there, his regime's _only_ developing nuclear capability, he's actually the victim you know, because everybody else keeps teasin' him about wearin' a dish cloth on his head…"

"Look," Sam clung to his temper, "You're over-reacting here. Some fugly is turning women to murdering each other. What those women are doing in their ordinary personal lives is irrelevant. If they were used car salesmen, we'd go help. If they were Wall Street traders, we'd go help. If they were TV evangelists, we'd go help. If they were in Congress, well, we'd probably still go help…"

Dean gave them a look that evoked a small child being told that they had to greet Great Aunt Agapanthus politely, indeed, fondly, when she came to visit, and would further be required to offer themselves up for kissing, no matter how impressive and bristly her moustache might be. "Is this… is it absolutely necessary for us to do this?"

Keeping his face as blank as possible, Sam played the trump card he'd been holding. "Well, I guess we don't have to," he conceded, giving Bobby a bland look.

"Good," humphed Dean in relief.

"I'll just pass the details on to somebody else," said Bobby nonchalantly, "Lemme make a few calls, see who's free, who's in the area, and…"

"Nyaaaaaaargh!" yodelled Dean in horror. "You can't tell anybody else about this!"

"Why not?" asked Sam.

"Because, if you tell somebody about this, they'll find out!" Dean yelped.

"Uh, yeah," Sam nodded, "That's generally the idea about givin' people intel, letting them know as much as possible about the situation before they walk into it."

"But, but, you can't!" Dean persisted, "They'll find out, they'll find out about the stories, and the women, and, and, the women, and the stories, and, and, and…"

"And?" prompted Sam.

"They'll… they'll laugh at us," Dean finished plaintively, "They'll laugh at us. And they'll tell other Hunters. You know how Hunters like to gossip, especially about each other, they're worse than football players' girlfriends. And everybody will know. And they'll laugh at us."

Bobby turned a naively confused expression on him. "Well, this has gotta be taken care of, son, so if you don't wanna do it…"

There was a brief pause.

"You assholes," Dean muttered, "You conniving, plotting, scheming, double-teaming assholes."

"Sometimes, boy, all the choices are complete shit," Bobby told him matter-of-factly, "And all you can do is find the one that sucks the least. In this case, you takin' care of it is the least worst option."

Dean let out a sad little moan. "Will there be any hot women there?" he asked sadly.

"There will be lots of women," Sam assured him, "So, chances are, some of 'em will be hot."

"Lookin' for the single daisy growin' on this heap of crap," Dean sighed. "All right, then, so, we gotta go save some crazy women, which will involve attending a gathering of crazy women, and having to read or hear some of the stuff read by crazy women. At least from here, my day can't get any worse."

"Well, uh," Sam scratched his head, "You're partly right there, at least."

Dean gave him a long, careful, resigned look. "So," he sighed, "You're determined to drag us off to this gathering of crazy women, which only leaves the bit about my day not getting worse… crap," he groaned, "What is it that you're not telling me?"

Sam and Bobby exchanged a look. "Well, uh, think about it," Sam said eventually, "We're heading off to a gathering of fanfic writers, who are all interested in the Supernatural books. Really interested. As in, obsessive about detail interested."

"What is this?" demanded Dean, "First, you tell me we gotta go do this job, now you're tryin' to scare me off?"

"No, no," Sam cut in hurriedly, "What I'm trying to say is, we'll be heading into a gathering of women who are kind of frighteningly well acquainted with the Edlund Carver books."

"And?" Dean prompted.

"Well, think about it," Sam went on, gradually assuming the air of somebody with an albumin allergy walking across trays of eggs barefoot, "A whole bunch of avid 'Supernatural' fans. What happens when we show up? A couple of guys, so tall, in a 1967 Chevy Impala, with a couple of Rottweilers in tow?"

Sam let the implications sink in for a moment.

"They'll think we're there LARPING, or," his tone turned ominous, "That we've been provided as some sort of… entertainment."

Various expressions chased each other across Dean's face, as he contemplated the various scenarios that might arise – on the one hand, he had no problem with the idea of 'entertaining' women. On the other hand, what a bunch of Beckys might demand of two 'Winchesters' as 'entertainment' made him shudder.

"So, what are you suggesting?" he asked finally.

"A Hunter relies on blending in," Bobby told him firmly, "Operatin' under the radar, not drawin' any attention. You know that – you stand out, you attract attention. Any sort of attention can make doin' your job more difficult. So, you gotta find a way to blend in."

"But, these people are mostly women, yeah?" Dean sounded confused. "You're sayin' we've gotta blend in, then you're sayin' we've gotta go join in a meet-up of women, and while Francis here could pass for a girl on the inside, there's no way the Living Sex God can help standing out in a room full of women…"

"Uh-huh," nodded Bobby, "You got it exactly right."

"So unless you got some scheme for…"

Dean's train of thought didn't exactly derail, but it did come to a grinding halt, brakes locking, wheels screeching, boilers hissing and whistle screaming shrilly.

"No," he said firmly, "No, just no. It'll never work. Maybe in the movies – it worked in _Mrs Doubtfire_, or _Tootsie_, or even _Tango and Cash_, and fuck knows how in _Junior_, and let's not even talk about _The Crying Game_, but come on! In reality? Not even with a close shave and an inch-thick layer of foundation. Not even if we claimed to be East German basketballers. Not even if we claimed to be related to Ronnie. There's no way we could pass as women!"

With an expression suggesting that he could hear eggshells cracking underfoot, Sam said, "We know. But we've, uh, we've got an idea…" He threw a desperate look at Bobby.

"Nobody's suggestin' that you try to disguise yourselves as wimmen," Bobby said firmly, "Although," he chuckled, "Those eyes, those lashes, those lips, if it weren't for the chin and the shoulders, boy…" he cleared his throat as Dean glared at him. "Anyway, no amount o' cosmetic special effects could disguise you two as female…"

There was a knock at the door, and he broke off to go and answer it.

"Sam," Dean rumbled, "What the fuck are you and that crazy old fart cooking up?"

"It wasn't my idea!" Sam yelped, "But I can't think of a better one! Least worst option, remember?"

Bobby entered the room accompanied by a woman. At least, they assumed she was a woman: she was about five-two, wearing a black dress and a head scarf, looked about a hundred and twenty years old and sported greying eyebrows and a moustache to rival Bobby's.

"Boys, this is Yiayia Panagopoulos," Bobby announced. "Yiayia, this is Sam, and this is Dean."

"_Yiasou_," the old woman grinned up at them, shaking hands firmly with an old hand that not only felt like it was made of walnuts, it could probably crack them too, "So, Sam? And Dean? Aaaaaah," she smiled up at Dean, "Very good, very good," she turned to Bobby. "This one, easy."

"Yiayia?" echoed Dean, giving Bobby a bemused look, "What sort of a name is Yiayia?"

"It's not a name, Dean," Sam said, "It's a title. It's Greek for 'Grandma'. It's also, uh, a term of respect given to a highly competent _magissa_. A Greek witch."

Dean looked down at her, as she reached out to give him a prod like a canny housewife assessing a choice cut of meat. "Ow! Hey, I hope you're not suggestin' that she has anything to do with this Hunt, because frankly, I'd have more chance of passin' as female than this… OW!"

"_Ndropi sou!"_ snapped the old lady, giving Dean a smart slap on the backside before stepping back and eyeing the Winchesters critically. "_Nai_, I can help with this, Bobby," she told the old Hunter, "On the outside anyway," she scoffed, jerking a thumb at Dean, "This one's mouth, you're on your own."

"Situation normal, then," muttered Bobby. "Boys, Yiayia P aint here to go on the Hunt – she's here to provide your camouflage."

"Great," griped Dean, "She can weave me a ghillie suit from her chin bristles... OW!" He let out a yip of pain as he was slapped upside the head simultaneously by Bobby and the old woman. "No fair double-teamin' me!"

"Well, you just watch your mouth then, boy," Bobby said sternly. "Yiayia aint gonna dress you up – she's gonna work up a Tiresias spell for us."

Tiresias?" repeated Dean. "What's a Tiresias?"

"It's not a what, Dean, it's a who," sighed Sam, feeling the figurative eggshells crack underfoot, "Tiresias was a figure of Greek mythology. He angered the goddess Hera, so she did a spell on him."

"What sort of spell?" asked Dean, rubbing his ears.

There was no delicate way to explain it to the Living Sex God, so, as the metaphorical egg white oozed up between his toes, Sam just spat it out. "She turned him into a woman."

* * *

Oh well, we had to tackle this trope in the Jimiverse sooner or later. Help little Alfie-Con the plot bunny dictate more - feed him reviews because Reviews are the Severed Horse's Head In The Bed Of Life!

...

Er, maybe not. Let's think of them as the, uh, the Unexpected Greek Pastries At The Morning Tea Of Life. Yeah. Much better.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Dean was no stranger to hearing things that he didn't want to hear. He'd been hearing things he didn't want to hear all his life. He heard things he didn't want to hear all the time.

"Dean, they didn't have any pie, all right? If there was pie, I would've got pie. But there wasn't. So I couldn't. So I didn't."

"Now, this might feel like a little bit of a sting, just hold still."

"Nope, no bacon left – you idjits ate the last of it yesterday. I told you yesterday, you idjits have just eaten the last of the bacon."

"Given where the injury is, it would be prudent to refrain from sexual activity for at least two weeks."

"Growf grrrrrf ruff rowf rumph grrrrrrrmf hrrrmphrumph". (Sorry, dude, I'm stuck again – can you get me a beer?)

Sometimes, he heard things he really didn't want to hear.

"Yeah, I'll cast some 9 mil silver ammo for you. Just as soon as you apologise for the crack about my wardrobe. I like flannel. It's practical. You can get me a six-pack, to make amends. And none of that undrinkable Yankee crap, either, I want proper beer. Shut your face, before I demand a slab. Go on, bugger off, get alcohol, make yourself useful."

"Okay, so that cast will have to stay on for six weeks."

"Step out of the car, please, sir, and place your hands on the roof."

"Hello, Dean – why are you using your brother's shower products again, when he has repeatedly asked you not to do so, especially for Special Me-Time?"

"Harrrruff ruff ruff rowf rumph grrrrrrruff ruff!" (There's a really amazing dead skunk over there, Alpha, here, get a sniff, I rolled in it to bring you the scent!)

Or things he really, really didn't want to hear.

"The only room we have left is a king bed, but that'll be fine for you guys, right, we're totally cool with that, we're a non-discriminatory establishment…"

"No, sorry Squirrel, no idea where Moose is, and if I did have, I wouldn't tell you, darling, I have standards to uphold."

"Brrrrumph hrrrrrrrm grrrrrrrrmph." (Oh, maybe I shouldn't have tasted that dead skunk.)

Or even things he really, really, _really_ didn't want to hear.

"Shut up, Dean, just _shut up_ – that laceration goes all the way up, we're miles from the nearest ER, where you'd only have to sit around – or stand around, as the case may be – for hours, and for the record, _I'm_ not enjoying this either, so just drop your damned pants, jerk, and let's deal with this."

"Whiiiiiine" _hrrrrrrrrrrrrk_ "Rumf!" (I feel better now, I just threw up on the back seat.)

But every so often, he heard something that he really, really, really, really, really, _really_ didn't want to hear, to the point where, if he could, he'd go back in time by a couple of minutes, just so he'd have time to poke out his own eardrums with a spork.

Being told that he was going to be transformed into a woman to do a job was right up there at the top of the ear-sporking list.

"Wsfgl?" he went.

"Look," Sam began in a placatory tone, "There's no other way. We cannot walk into this as ourselves. Men showin' up at one of these meets would be conspicuous enough, but we show up as us, worst case scenario, somebody figures out that we're really, uh, real."

"This way, you'll be able to mingle with other writers, and talk to them as equals," Bobby continued. "I know you don't like the idea, son, but this is really the only option."

His mouth open in disbelief like a talent show hopeful who's just been told that in fact no, they can't sing, in fact they should go and join a cloistered order somewhere where they can take a vow of silence, Dean sat down heavily on the sofa.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he managed eventually. "Why does God hate me so much? Damned celestial deadbeat dad. What the fuck have I ever done to piss Him off this much?"

"Well, it could be the constant blasphemy," Sam pointed out, "And maybe calling His kids 'flying dicks', and frankly, you're pretty rude to Him or about Him at least once a week, so…"

"God aint got nothin' to do with it," Bobby said sternly, "It's some fugly that's to blame, so you just get off The Almighty's case, and do what you gotta do to get the job done."

"Great," muttered Dean, "Just great. I'm gonna be bespelled by Gimli here, and the-OW! Hey!" He glared resentfully at Yiayia Panagopoulos as he rubbed his ear.

"I was reading Tolkien before you were born," she growled at him. "You'd like to see me swing an axe like I mean it?"

"Ignore him, Yiayia," Sam said, shooting Dean a searing Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!), "He suffers from dyswitchia, an irrational and irresistible compulsion to do everything he can to piss off a witch."

"You keep a civil tongue in your head, boy," Bobby snapped, "You aint too big to be put across my knee."

Dean gave him a hard stare. "If you wait until I'm a chick, that'd be just creepy," he sniffed.

"Look, I don't know why you're getting so upset," Sam commented, "It's not like you haven't done this before. At least you've had practice at living as a female, when you and Ronnie got swapped into each other's bodies."

"And you think I'm lookin' forward to it?" Dean shot back. "Sam, I know that you'll appreciate this, being the SNAG kind o' guy you are, I'm tellin' you, sometimes it's hard to be a woman."

Sam gave him a blank stare. "You burst into song, I'll hit you too," he said flatly.

"No, no," Dean waved his hands in agitation, "There's… it's… look, there's all these little things that kind of add up, okay, a whole bunch of things. Like undergarments."

"Undergarments?" echoed Bobby and Sam.

"Bras," Dean stated. "They constitute cruel and unusual punishment. And you gotta sit down to take a leak – you'll probably have to put the seat down, first, and nobody else ever changes the TP roll when it runs out."

"Given that this is only going to be a temporary thing, that's hardly enough to put the kybosh on it," Sam suggested.

"Huh," humphed Dean, "Come back and say that when you've been wearin' an underwire all day. That's just the start of it, you can feel people judgin' you on your appearance, and you can tell that men just want one thing…"

"Well, you'd have been familiar with that from way back," Sam observed tartly, "Seein' as you've been doin' that to women since you were a teenager."

"This will only be a short term thing, maybe a week," Bobby cut in, "So the wider sociological implications of entrenched discrimination won't be pertinent to the job."

Dean wasn't listening. "And then," he swallowed nervously, "Then, there's… it."

"It?" repeated Sam doubtfully.

"It," Dean said again, "If you're a woman, you can't escape from it."

"Uh, okaaaaaay," Sam replied carefully. "So, uh, you know, if you could be a little more specific, bro…"

"It! It!" Dean hissed, "You know, it! If your timing's bad, there's it!"

Understanding dawned on Sam's face. "Ah, it," he nodded. "Yeah, well, it's a perfectly normal physiological process for a healthy adult female body, Dean."

"Don't you dare lecture me about 'perfectly normal physiological process'!" Dean hissed angrily. "What would you know about it? Do you know what it's like to feel as though your pancreas is tryin' to strangle your liver with your kidneys?"

Sam looked bewildered. "Uh, no, no, I don't, but I could imagine…"

"No, Sam!" yelped Dean, "You cannot imagine! That's the whole point! As a man, you cannot imagine! You have no idea what it feels like! Like your legs are tryin' to pull themselves off the rest of you to get away! Like somebody is stabbing you from the inside with a rusty knife! Like some asshole Predator alien is tryin' to pull your spine out of your body to make a trophy! Like if you move, every single muscle in your body will tear itself to pieces at once!"

Sam gave him a dubious look. "Well, Ronnie did say that she feels a bit tired for a day or so…"

"And then," Dean's face was a picture of anguish, "Assuming you can get enough drugs into your system to convince yourself that you aint gonna die, and in fact maybe you don't actually want to die, you spend the next few days feelin' like you got a mattress shoved down your pants…"

"Dean…"

"And you can be just sittin' there, and it's just, it's just, it's just _gross_…"

"Dean…"

"It's no wonder Carrie freaked out, Sam, it'd make Dexter freak out!"

"Dean, I think you might be over-reacting just a bit…"

"You have no idea what you might be lettin' yourself in for!" Dean finished with a horrified squeak.

Yiayia Panagopoulos let out a snort of amusement. "This right here, this is why the women have the children," she chuckled. "If the men had the children, the human race would have died out before it even started."

"Don't get me started on childbirth," Dean growled, "I can tell you, it aint the least bit funny…"

"Might I remind you," Bobby pointed out, "You only got to experience the, uh, feminine mystery, and the joys of childbirth, because you're so good at bein' rude to witches. So, why don't you stop it, before you end up, uh, learnin' somethin' else about the female state that you'd rather not."

"Look, Dean," Sam tried in a calm tone, "If we get hit with the, uh, feminine mystery, we'll just have to get on with it, dose up on drugs, or camomile, or chocolate, or whatever, and get on with it. It's what women all over the world do."

"You've been warned," Dean intoned ominously, "You've been warned, Sammy, you can't complain later that nobody told you…"

"Okay, I've been warned," Sam cut him off, "I'll take that intel on board, now stop being such a drama queen."

"Fine," rumbled Dean, "Fine, we'll do this job, we'll do it your way, but if the hormone fairy flutters by and whacks you over the head with her wand, don't come bitching to me about how unattractive you feel. So, what's the plan?"

Sam outlined the plan he'd been working on with Bobby: head to the next fanfic meeting, which would be in Chicago, join in, and try to identify the next likely victims, ID and find whatever-it-was that was inspiring the murders and stop it.

"So we'll only have to be female for a week or so," Sam pointed out, "If we can figure out what the fugly is."

"Fuck my life," Dean muttered, "So, what do we have to do?"

Yiayia P. will work up the spell for us," Bobby explained, "Then you two idjits head off on a girls-only road trip, pass yourselves off as rabid _Supernatural_ fans, and then get on with the family business."

"Be still my beating fangirl heart," grumped Dean, sighing deeply, "Okay, then, lay it on us." He resisted the urge to add 'Gandalf' to the end of the sentence.

Yiayia Panagopoulos went about setting up her altar, Sam helping her to gather the ingredients she'd need for the spell, while Dean spent some time with RJ.

"The only consolation here is that you're too young to remember watchin' your dad turn into your mom," he sighed glumly to his son. RJ gave his dad a sympathetic look, patted his face consolingly, then offered him a leg of Stanley the knitted honey badger to chew on. "Uh, no thanks, buddy, although I appreciate the offer," Dean couldn't help but grin. "I just hope this doesn't freak you out as much as it will freak me out."

"Meh," said RJ equably, chomping serenely on Stanley.

"You can be pretty damned Zen for a kid your age," Dean observed, "Not like your Uncle Sammy – he could scream the place down if something unexpected happened, like, say, his sippy cup was thirty seconds late. Seriously, he had OCD even back then."

Bobby and Sam assisted Yiayia with the spell, as she muttered in Greek both ancient and modern, nodding encouragement to them as they performed their roles. Dean grudgingly had to admit that Yiayia certainly seemed to know her stuff: as one old-school practitioner of the craft of mechanics, he could appreciate another old-school operator. There were bells, there were candles, there were arcane symbols, there were strange and ululant phrasings, there was stuff being set on fire – he nodded in approval. He might not like witches and their magic, but he knew what it was supposed to look like.

Finally, there was a _whoomph_ noise and a flash of pink light. Yiayia peered critically into the extremely ugly goblet she'd used, and let out a small humph of satisfaction.

"Success," she declared, passing the goblet carefully to Bobby. "Drink up before bed, wake up to experience feminine mystery."

"Thank you, Yiayia," said Bobby, "We'll just put this somewhere safe – now, can I offer you coffee before you go?"

Bobby and Sam chatted with Yiayia Panagopoulos, while Dean went outside to spend the afternoon with his car, "Before I have to worry about gettin' my ass slapped when I've got the hood up," he told his car grumpily.

Afternoon faded into evening, which faded into dinner time, then bed time.

"Why is there always something disgusting that I gotta drink?" complained Dean, peering into the potion with a grimace. "I've brushed my teeth already!"

"Jerk," huffed Sam, taking the mug containing the potion and gulping down about half of the contents. "Oh, hey," he said with a smile, "It tastes like beer!"

"Yeah?" Dean grabbed the mug, and took a large mouthful. "Arrrrrrgh! Blarrrrrgh! Oh, fuck me, that tastes gross!"

Sam simply gave his brother a sunny 'Gotcha!' smile, and headed for his bed. "Night, bro."

Night, bro. Well, bro for now," Dean sighed, checking on RJ in his cot, where the little boy was fast asleep, cuddling Stanley. "I just hope that come morning, he doesn't scream any louder than me."

"Go to bed, jerk," instructed Sam, turning out his bedside lamp and rolling over.

"Yes, Mom," drawled Dean, getting into his own bed.

He lay in the dark, wondering what it would be like: would it be a Cinderella moment, when one minute, he was male, and the next, _pop_, he wasn't? Or would it be a slow process, the inexorable shrinkage here and expandage there until he was finally down two kiwis and a banana, but up two melons? He clenched his hands into fists, making himself refrain from clutching protectively at his most prized possessions.

He was still wondering about it when he finally fell asleep, and his gentle snores joined the others.

* * *

In the Jimiverse, Dean first experienced the feminine mysteries in 'Wolf Whistle', and underwent an existential pregnancy in ''Pregnant Pause'. Both as a result of pissing off witches. Yep, acute dyswitchia, that one.

Well, little Alfie-Con the mafia plot bunny is being a talkative little rodent, so your kind reviews must be encouraging him. He's just trying to work out if anybody else should be dragged into this Hunt - should RJ go? (He at least could be disguised convincingly as a beautiful little girl). Should Castiel go? (He could try another vessel)? The mind boggles...

Send more reviews because Reviews are the Cuddly Knitted Toys In The Cot Of Life!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Dean Winchester rarely had the opportunity to sleep late: if they were on a job, The Big Brother Within That Never Sleeps would not be prepared to risk leaving Sam unguarded, and if they were at Singer Salvage, then either RJ and/or Lemmy would provide a wake-up call, involving drooling, slobbery kisses and loud demands for breakfast. So on the odd occasion when he did get the chance to take his time waking up, he enjoyed it.

It looked like that morning might be one of those occasions – RJ didn't usually take advantage of the dogs' Hellhound-blood capacity to pull him out of his cot, but sometimes he'd go downstairs with Sam, his little brother removing toddler and dogs to allow his big bro some extra snooze time.

Dean let his brain take its time waking up from a weird dream about a bowl of fruit salad, finally opening his eyes, then performing the time-honoured ritual of Man Arising (yawn, stretch, fart, scratch groin) in a leisurely manner. Yawning for a second time as he scratched his chin and wondered if it might be worth shaving, he noted that he was alone in the Winchesters' room. Good, he thought, he would have the bathroom to himself, without brother or toddler or dog barging in, so he could take a shower, and maybe use up some more of Sam's toiletries…

He looked down, and screamed.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Bobby and Sam were in the kitchen when they heard the scream.

"Sounds like he – or should I say she? – is awake, then," observed Bobby, with a brief chortle.

"And he says I scream like a girl," humphed Sam, putting RJ's breakfast in front of the child. The boy smiled up at him, apparently completely unfazed by the fact that Uncle Sammy had, overnight, transmogrified into Auntie Samantha.

"Well, technically, right now, if you did scream, you would," Bobby pointed out.

"We'll have to hit a Goodwill, or something, before we head out," Sam commented, looking down at himself. Herself. It was going to take some getting used to. "Lookin' like a woman who's borrowed some sweats to sleep over at her boyfriend's place is okay for the breakfast table in your own kitchen, but we're gonna need some more wardrobe items than that." He hitched the now-way-too-big tee back onto his shoulder. "And shoes. I could fit both feet into one of my boots!"

It had been a hell of a shock to wake up and find that he was… well, essentially a female version of himself. If Dad had given me an X-chromosome instead of a Y, he'd mused, this is what I could have looked like. I'm still me, but… I'm she-me.

He was tall for a woman, five-ten or five-eleven he guessed, and the, uh, well the anatomy had been rearranged, but when he looked in the mirror, he recognised his own features: hazel eyes, long straight dark hair, and a strong chin, but… softer. Less angular. Definitely female. Kind of attractive in a girl-next-door kind of way, if he was dispassionate about it, a woman in her thirties who'd been blessed with good genes and stayed active and ate a sensible diet.

"I guess I don't have to worry about the, uh, foundation garment thing if I don't want to," he smiled ruefully down at his own modest chest, "There's not a whole lot there, so I can get away with it."

"Karen always used to complain like hell about the cost of, you know, unmentionables," Bobby related, "So bein' a bit on the small-busted side will save you money." He looked down at Sam's feet, swimming in a pair of his own socks. "We might have some stuff in the attic that will get you decent enough to go out in public and get some more stuff that actually fits…"

The thundering down the stairs announced the imminent arrival of Dean.

"Ah, here comes your brother – or your sister, heh heh – now," chucked Bobby.

"That's something we'll have to work out," Sam noted, putting RJ's sippy cup in front of him, "It might be better if we say we're friends rather than sisters, we want to draw as few parallels with ourselves as w- HOLY SHIT!"

Dean burst into the kitchen, wild-eyed and dishevelled, with his – well, her, really – chest heaving.

If he was honest, Sam thought, 'heaving' was exactly the right word for what that chest was doing.

"Saaaaaaaaam! Bobbyyyyyyyyy!" yodelled Dean in a definitely female voice.

Bobby paused and turned to look at… Deanna.

"God's tits," he muttered.

Yep, Deanna. Weren't no way he could possibly think of the person who'd just barged into his kitchen as anything except female. She kind of, well, radiated female. Her femaleness preceded her.

By several cup sizes, if he was any judge.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The spell that Yiayia Panagopoulos had performed was only a temporary transformation. Nonetheless, it took a powerful and highly competent practitioner to pull it off. However, even given what it had achieved, it was not as amazing as it looked to the well-informed observer.

Any time a human had the temerity to cast a spell, there was always the element of what could only be described as cosmic comeuppance lurking nearby, just waiting to pounce on a practitioner who got too uppity: the Powers That Be, whether it was Karma, or Fate, or Universal Energy, or any one of countless gods, didn't mind humans learning to channel and use magic, just so long as their heads didn't get too big for their pointy hats. Wielding magic was like exploiting any power resource: handled prudently and wisely, it could achieve marvellous things, but carelessness born of arrogance or ignorance could be fatal – or, in the case of The Craft, worse.

The phrase 'Nobody likes a smart-arse' didn't just apply to the entire human race, it was woven into the very fabric of Creation. In spellcraft, Pride didn't just come before a fall, it came before a serious smack-down followed by a plummet back down to earth, with a very hard landing. That's why evil witches often operated alone, not because there weren't other evil witches around, but because nobody in the know with more than half a dozen neurons to knock together wanted to hang out with somebody who had metaphorically coated themselves with fluorescent paint, drawn a target on their own back and went around carrying a sign reading SMITE ME IF YOU CAN BITCHES.

And you didn't have to be evil to come unstuck. Claire Shepherd, one of the most powerful white witches in Australia, was a perfect example. Having tried to influence the sex of her first child, cosmic comeuppance had rewarded her arrogance and ambition in thinking any human could influence such a fundamentally natural thing with a daughter who would've been considered ruggedly handsome had she been born male, and to rub it in, young Veronica had shown no interest at all in learning The Craft. But at least Claire lived to tell the tale, and more importantly, to learn from her mistake, practising with more humility for the rest of her life. Cosmically speaking, that was getting off scot-free.

So, it was all about doing the least interfering possible to achieve what was needed, Yiayia explained over coffee and cookies – don't try to produce a towering croquembouche when all that's really necessary is a butter cake, maybe with some nice raspberry buttercream. As far as possible, work with what you've got. The story of Cinderella was a case in point - the Fairy Godmother didn't turn Ella into a beautiful woman: all she did was scrub the muck off an already-lovely girl and put her in a clean dress with some very expensive booster corsetry (and mice-into-horses, she scoffed, was a complete doddle, because most horses have an intelligence about on par with that of rodents: they're either ridiculously frightened of everything, or as cunning as shit-house rats).

The less you try to do, the less cosmic attention you draw to yourself. So, if you want to take a tall and shyly attractive man like Sam, and make him female, you work with what might have been, and settle for a tall and shyly attractive woman.

And if you start with a man who, by his own description, is the Living Sex God…

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"Look at me!" demanded Dean, "Just look at me!"

Sam and Bobby were looking at him. Or rather, at her.

No brain that had been born as a straight male could possibly _avoid_ look at her.

On the one hand, it was fair to say that it was Dean's own fault. On the other hand, it was also fair to point out that he wasn't responsible for the genetics that the fickle nature of human biology had dealt him.

On the other other hand, it had to be acknowledged that Dean had taken advantage of the appearance he'd been born with, and had used it, exploited it, and milked it for all it was worth when it suited him.

So it wasn't a complete surprise that his transformation into a woman has sought to mirror the self he was as a man…

"Hey!" Dean snapped, "My eyes are up here!"

"And very nice eyes they are too," humphed Bobby, peering into them, "Wow, I think your eyelashes might be even longer than they were."

"Jesus, Dean, we're all in the same grid square," Sam protested, dragging his eyes away from his brother's – sister's? – astonishing assets. "There's no need to go shouting the place down. So, uh, I see it worked for you, too."

It had worked. Oh boy, how it had worked.

As a man, Dean Winchester had a combination of a masculine build and a disarmingly attractive face, and at all times he exuded a cocky I'm Too Sexy For This Planet confidence. It was a potent mix, where the whole was greater than the sum of the parts, combining to produce the come-hither ambiance of the Living Sex God. It made women want to sleep with him, and men want to punch his face in.

The woman who stood before them was the female equivalent: a body that a cheerleader would cheerfully eat her pom-poms for, a glorious riot of thick, wavy blonde hair, a face that would be right at home on the cover of Vogue with practically no airbrushing; even standing in faded sleep sweats that were way too big, everything about the woman before them screamed Look At How Fucking Gorgeous I Am.

And then, there were the, uh, assets.

The word that sprang into Sam's mind, and refused to go away, was_ pert_.

Bobby examined Dean's new look critically. "So, you're what, five-seven, five-eight?" he estimated.

"Still short, then," Sam grinned.

"Shut up," griped Dean, dropping heavily into a chair. "Ow! Jesus, how the hell can it hurt your… chest just to sit down?" Then he noticed that RJ was staring at him, open-mouthed. "Hey, RJ, how you doin', buddy?"

Entranced, the boy leaned towards his femaled father, extended a small chubby hand, and carefully poked at Dean's chest.

"Uh, yeah, about that," Dean began, "You see, Daddy's gotta wear a kind of disguise to go do a job…"

RJ let out a squeal of delight, and clapped his hands. "Titi!" he hollered, beaming. "Titi! Titi! Tititititititititi titi!"

Dean's beautiful large eyes widened even further in horror. "What the hell?"

"It's your own fault," shrugged Sam, "You're the one who lets him watch _Action Figure Therapy_ on YouTube. You're the one who laughs when that guy called Jungle says 'Moustache with titties'."

"TITI!" shouted RJ gleefully, reaching out to grab at Dean's chest. "TIIIITIIII!"

"OW!" yelped Dean, brushing RJ away as the boy giggled. "Hey, that hurts, they're not handles!"

A truly mischievous grin, a recognisably embryonic form of the Killer Smile, oozed across RJ's face. "Titi," he chuckled in low voice, his little fingers twitching.

"Yep, he's yours," Bobby laughed.

"I don't know what you're laughing about," Dean snapped, "How the hell am I supposed to operate with… these?"

"Look on the bright side," Sam suggested, "If you fall over, you'll just bounce right back up again."

"Bitch," Dean pulled the coffee towards himself.

"Well," Sam looked thoughtful, "Maybe you can earn some extra money while you're like this."

Dean turned a death stare on his 'sister'. "Sam, if you even try to make a joke about me spendin' some time as a working girl, I swear I will…"

'No! No!" Sam cut in hurriedly, "Not at all! Totally not!"

"Good," grunted Dean, letting out an unladylike belch, "Because if you do, I swear, I will do worse than pull your hair."

"I was just thinking that, you know," Sam waved a hand in Dean's general direction, "If there's a magazine somewhere called _Busty American Beauties_, you'd be a shoe-in for a centrefold shoot."

"I hate you."

* * *

Oh Dean, how we love to discombobulate you and watch you splutter. What preparations must they make before they set out as Thelma and Louise?

Feed Alfie-Con the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious Butter Cake With Raspberry Butter Cream Topping In The Kitchen Of Life!


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

"Well, at least they fit," muttered Sam, peering down at the pair of sneakers that he hadn't worn for more than twenty years, "There might be some stuff here that'll fit you a bit better…" He looked up; Dean was still in the bathroom. "Dean?"

There was a muffled 'Ow!' from behind the door.

"Dean?" he said again, "What the hell are you doing in there?" He stood, and pushed open the door. "Look, I know that women are supposed to take longer in here, but…"

He stopped, and gawped.

Dean was peering at his chin in the mirror, and… "Ow! Fuck, she did this on purpose."

"What the… Dean, what the hell are you doing?"

Dean turned around, and gave his brother a bitchy look. "What does it look like I'm doin', Sam? I'm gettin' rid of my chin hairs!"

"What?" Sam peered at his brother's (or should he say sister's? It was seriously weird, and seriously confusing) face in the mirror. "What chin hairs?"

"These chin hairs!" Dean thrust a pair of tweezers under Sam's nose, and he went cross-eyed trying to focus on the tips, where a small short hair protruded. "That old bitch gave me chin hairs!"

"Well, I can't see any," Sam said, peering at Dean's face again.

"Oh, believe me, they're there," Dean said glumly, "I can feel 'em, I know they're there."

"Well, it's perfectly normal for a woman your age to have a bit of, you know," Sam waved a hand vaguely. "Facial hair."

"Whaddya mean, a woman of my age?" demanded Dean.

"Exactly that," Sam stated, "As a woman in your forties, it's normal that your oestrogen levels will start to decline, and relatively speaking, your androgens are comparatively higher than they were when you were, say, in your twenties. It's normal, bro. Should I be calling you bro? Or should I get into the habit of calling you sis? Crap, this is weird…"

"Well, normal aint good enough," humphed Dean, turning back to the mirror. "Shit, I should do something with my eyebrows while I'm here…"

"Dean, nobody can see 'em," humphed Sam, "And your eyebrows are fine!"

"Hmmmmm," Dean peered critically at himself again. "I guess I can leave 'um until after I get my legs sorted out."

"Your legs?" Sam blinked. "What's wrong with your legs?"

"This!" Dean reached down, grabbed for the bottom of his rolled-up sweats, then thrust a toned and shapely lower leg out at Sam for examination.

Sam dutifully examined the proffered extremity. "Er, it's a very nice leg," he offered eventually, "You have nice legs, Dean, oh, God, I don't believe I just said that…"

"Of course I do!" Dean snapped, "You just can't see 'em for the hair!"

"Huh?"

"I told you, Yiayia Tootsie did it on purpose!" Dean gazed forlornly at his shin. "It's payback for the Gimli crack." He turned back to the mirror, tilting his head up. "Oh, God, look, you can see my moustache, and I can tell you that it don't have titties…"

"Titi!" yelled RJ happily from his place on the floor, where he was occupying himself attempting to get Stanley the knit toy honey badger to perform an act that, were it done by a human in public, would result in a charge of public indecency. "Titi! Titi! Tiiiiiiiitiiiiiii!"

"Oh, no, don't set him off – look, Dean, you do know that body hair is normal on everybody, right?"

"Body hair, maybe," Dean sniffed, "But not this! Not these, these, mohair stockings!"

Sam let out a groan of disbelief. "Look, Dean, we're only going to be female for a week or so, there's really no need for you to spend time worrying about a bit of upper lip fluff, or shaving your damned legs!"

Dean hummed thoughtfully. "You're right," he agreed. "It'll take up time I probably won't have once we're on the job."

"Well, good," Sam nodded. "Great."

"It'd make more sense to go and get waxed before we leave," Dean decided. "I'll do that while we're out lookin' for clothes and stuff." He grinned up at Sam. "Good plan, Gigantor."

"What? It's not a plan!" yelped Sam, "I didn't mean… oh, fuck, yeah, right, whatever, bro."

"Sis," Dean corrected him cheerfully, "We aint brothers, we're best friends, Dee and Samantha, on a girls-only road trip." He paused. "If anybody asks, we're Deangirls."

"What?" Sam whatted again, "Why?"

"Well, because he's so hot, duh," 'Dee' rolled her eyes. "He is the Living Sex God, after all. Hey, you don't have to be Samantha, you can be Frances if you'd prefer." He peered critically at the mirror once more. "I'll be out in a minute, I just wanna get this bastard under my jaw here, it feels like I got a hawser hangin' out of my face…"

With a small bewildered noise, Sam shut the bathroom door, leaving 'her' 'bestie' to get on with the ritual of beautification.

"You know, I've always thought your father was kind of nuts," Sam confided to RJ, "But right now, I think his hormones might be affecting him."

"I heard that!" came the snippy comment from the bathroom.

"Meh," said RJ, proffering Stanley by way of consolation.

"I guess it's just what he might've been like, if he'd been born female," Sam sighed, sitting down with his (her? It really was going to do his/her head in). "I mean, there's always been an element of vanity there; Dean's known since he was a kid that he looks good. But seriously, chin hairs? Eyebrows? Leg waxing? And, and, and…"

"Titi?" suggested RJ helpfully.

"Yeah, there's that," Sam grinned, "He's not gonna be able to throw off the patriarchal shackles of corsetry this time. Otherwise, if he has to run somewhere, he'll give himself a black eye."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

When Dean deemed that he had made his female body presentable enough to go out in public, he made his way down the stairs, carrying RJ.

"OW! Seriously, little dude, you try that once too often, you'll get your face slapped. Trust me on that one, learn from your old man's mistakes."

"Well, you can't blame him for bein' fascinated," Bobby opined, "He don't usually have a female parental chest to grab." He paused. "And let's face it, that's kind of a, uh, grabbable chest you got there."

"Don't objectify me," Dean sniffed disdainfully, handing RJ over as the boy made one final grab at Dean's rack. "So, we gotta haul ass and tool up with female stuff. First item on the agenda," he glared down critically at himself, "Some armour. At the very least, something that'll thwart any guy who tries to get fresh. Yeah," he exchanged a look with his son, "I'm lookin' at you."

RJ blew and extravagant raspberry, but then started to bounce up and down in Bobby's arms when he heard the rattle of the car keys.

"Crap, you're worse than the dogs," Dean muttered, looking around, "You can distract each other while we're gone. Where are they?" he opened the door, and looked around the yard. "Lemmy! Lars! If those two asshats have found a dead skunk to roll in again…"

"Ah, yeah, your dogs," began Bobby in a neutral tone, "I need to have a word with you about your dogs…"

"Don't worry, we'll take 'em with us, as usual," Dean said dismissively, "Lem! Lem! What's that little smartass of yours dragged my dog into now, Sam?"

"Uh, it's not about takin' 'em with us," Sam told him, "It's about the job, and preparations for it…"

"Lem! LEM!" Dean swore under his breath. "Damn, I bet they've headed for the swimming hole, I'm not headin' out until they're washed and dried, I will not have my Baby stink of wet dog…"

There was a sudden burst of high-pitched barking, and a couple of copper-coloured streaks shot across the yard towards the house. Dean watched bemused as they made for the porch, headed up the stairs, then sat, tongues lolling and eyes dancing, gazing up at him adoringly.

"Er, Bobby," he began, "You, uh, you got a couple of stray… what the fuck are they?"

Sam sighed deeply. "They're Spoodles, Dean."

"Spoodles?" Dean considered that. "Sounds like a breakfast cereal you dish up to overweight kids who won't eat anythin' that don't have at least a cup of sugar and flavours and colours per bowl." He cocked his head, and considered the two small fleecy faces watching him lovingly. "And they look like somethin' I could use to buff the wax off my Baby."

"A Spoodle is a cross between a Cocker Spaniel, and a Poodle," explained Bobby.

"Yeah?" Dean looked down at the two dogs. "Well, they aint the usual sort o' dog you keep, Bobby, are you babysittin' for somebody? Because…"

As a Hunter, Dean's brain was wired to look for small details, small tells that could provide vital intel about a situation, a place, or a person. Or even a dog. And as he looked, he noticed that one was bigger than the other. The bigger one had large, floppy ears, and wore an expression of good-natured adoration. The smaller wore a doggy smile that had a distinct undertone of calculation to it.

Pattern recognition was a talent Dean possessed in spades, and as the pieces fell into place, his jaw fell open.

"Wha…" he turned made an incredulous noise, "Wha… Lem?"

The larger dog let out a happy whuff, and spun around on the spot in excitement.

"We were gonna tell you, Dean," Sam began tentatively, "We were gonna tell you, but you were so busy with your personal grooming this morning…"

"You two assholes turned the boys into these… dishmops?" Dean stared at them. "You did this? On purpose? You took our two awesome boys, and turned 'em into dusters?"

"Er, not exactly," said Sam sheepishly.

Lemmy turned another circle, then flopped down and began to wash himself in the unconcerned and exhibitionist fashion of dogs, slouched on his haunches, one hind leg extended, and licking contentedly at his…"

Dean let out a little shriek. "You turned our boys into girls?" he squeaked.

"We had to!" Sam replied in a placatory tone, "It's like we discussed, we have to make ourselves as unlike us as possible! Turning up with two male Rottweiler-shaped Hellhounds would've been inviting unwanted attention!"

"Oh my God, what have they done to you, Lem?" Dean moaned, hunkering down to pet the dog's head. Lemmy rolled over, large soulful eyes soliciting belly rubs. "They've disfigured you, they've mutilated you."

"It's only temporary, idjit," Bobby humphed with a roll of his eyes. "Just like for you and your brother. They spend a short time undercover, as Lennie and Lara, then they'll be back to their old selves before you can say 'Some Like It Hot'."

"The key word here is temporary," Sam said firmly, "Temporary, and totally reversible. Completely non-permanent, and absolutely reversible. Just a temporary disguise, for a short time, then back to normal. Keep that in mind, Dean. Temporary. It's temporary. All the camouflage we're doing for this job, it's all just temporary."

"Great," humphed Dean, scratching 'Lennie' on the curly-haired little belly, "Just great. You're a great big girl, and I'm a great big girl, and now my dog's a little tiny girl, and your dog is an even tinier little girl. What the fuck are they supposed to do if we run up against something nasty?"

"They're still themselves inside, idjit," Bobby grinned, "Usually they get around disguised as Rotties, but for a little while, they're gonna be Spoodles. Whatever they look like, they are three-quarters Hellhound, and the window dressin' don't affect that."

"Like you," Sam suggested encouragingly, "You might be, uh, Dee-shaped on the outside, but on the inside, you're still you, right?" He paused. "Slightly more hormonal and vain than usual, but still you," he added under his breath.

"Well I've had about all the 'window dressing' I can handle in one hit," Dean muttered, standing up. "The window dressing for this job has now officially ended. You will not cast any more spells, glamours, charms or workings for this job without discussing it with me, and getting my agreement, okay?"

"Absolutely," Bobby declared, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. "I promise, I will not do any more workings from now on, not without comin' to you first with the details before proceedin'."

"Well, okay," Dean sounded partly mollified. He jingled his car keys. "Come on, Sammy, daylight's burnin', and somewhere out there is a foundation garment with my name on it, damn it."

Sam shot Bobby one anguished glance, but the old man just cocked an eloquent eyebrow at him. _You're on your own._

As they rounded the house, there was a pause.

Then came the screaming.

Then came the threats of horrible death, as Sam's pleas for understanding fell on deaf ears.

Dean was still screaming five minutes later as they left for Sioux Falls.

"Your Daddy is a complete idjit, you know that?" said Bobby to the boy in his arms.

"Ijit!" agreed RJ, waving goodbye as the familiar rumble of the engine died away.

They stayed there, RJ waving goodbye and sucking on Stanley, until the powder blue Volvo was gone from sight.

* * *

Oh dear, looks like Alfie-Con has well and truly discovered the fun of pushing Dean's buttons.

For the young leddies amongst The Denizens, I'm afraid it's true: as you get older, you get the chin hairs. And they're not just hairs, they become BRISTLES. And you KNOW THEY'RE THERE. Even when they turn grey, and nobody can really see them unless they are less than six inches away from you, YOU WILL KNOW THEY ARE THERE. And you will not be able to rest until they are PULLED OUT AND GONE. Nobody ever tells young women this, perhaps out of a desire to protect them from the hideous truth, but knowledge is power, and if you have knowledge, you will have power, or at least prior warning to go and buy yourself a magnifying mirror and a really good quality pair of tweezers.

Feed him reviews, because Reviews Are The Adorably Profane Toddlers At The Family Occasions Of Life!


	7. Chapter 7

I have been informed that Up There in the glorious YouSay, the correct terminology for what us Down Here would refer to as a 'Spoodle' is, in fact, a Cockapoo. Which is not to be confused with a Cockatoo. Although both of them could no doubt chew your house, ruin your laundry on the line, crap all over your yard and dig up your garden in a very noisy fashion. Cockapoos are a lot cuter, though, and far easier to forgive.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

"Knock it off!" yapped Sam after Dean had blown past another car as a road narrowed from two lanes to one, "You can't risk getting pulled over before Bobby has a chance to get our IDs sorted out! Technically, right now, you count as unlicenced."

"It was his fault," Dean grinned smugly at the rear view mirror, where a most discombobulated young man in a modern car was trying to work out how an ageing Volvo driven by a woman who was more concerned about checking her hair in the mirror had beaten him off the lights with a throaty roar, "He was gonna try and force me outta the way." He patted the dash. "We eat young asshats like that for breakfast, don't we, Baby?" The engine rumbled reassuringly. "She still herself under the disguise, and they got no idea who they're messing with. Serves him right, for judging a girl on her looks alone."

"Dean, nobody in their right mind would try to force this car out of the way," Sam pointed out, "It's built like a tank!"

"And purrs like a she-lion," Dean kept grinning unrepentantly.

"Lions don't purr," Sam snapped. "They can only roar."

"Well, so can my Baby," Dean was a cheerfully unsquelchable motorhead, even in a female body. "Some things are clearly too important to be messed with." He gave Sam a frown. "But I am still never goin' to forgive you for doing this to my Baby. I will have my revenge, on you and Bobby."

"That's probably not a good idea," Sam suggested, "The last time you tried to avenge yourself on Bobby for some perceived wrong-doing, you were the one who ended up with green hair."

Dean spent the rest of the trip complaining about the casual attitude with which Sam and Bobby had violated his car, then the first trip was to a lingerie store, where Dean seemed suspiciously at ease surrounded by racks of women's undergarments, as a birdlike old lady with glasses on a lanyard who was no doubt somebody's Great Aunt Muriel wielded her tape measure with the efficiency of an expert.

"This lady would like to be fitted too, please," Dean smiled at another Great Aunt Muriel clone who was hovering discreetly.

"Uh, no, it's okay, I'm good," Sam felt his shoulders hunch involuntarily, feeling suddenly inexplicably defensive.

"No it's not, sis," Dean dropped his voice, "You might think you're fine, but I'm tellin' ya, I don't want to spend the next week havin' to look at my brother's high beams…"

Sam let out a squeak and crossed his arms.

"Don't mind her, she's just shy," Dean smiled, lifting his arms and turning, "But it's just what you need, Samantha, something to make you feel pretty."

'Samantha' gave 'Dee' a brief but concentrated Bitchface #10™ (Tonight, You Die In Your Sleep) as the other fitter moved in, tape in her hand and reassuring smile on her face.

"There's no need to be shy," she said in a calm and businesslike tone, "We're all girls here, and you don't have anything I haven't seen before."

"I bet they can find you something to really maximise those assets," suggested Dean breezily.

Reluctantly, Sam lifted his arms to be measured, and started running improbable if amusing payback scenarios through his head.

Rejecting anything too lacy, too racy, or with too much structural engineering for his liking, Great Aunt Muriel v2.0 quickly furnished him with some no-nonsense bras that he thought he could probably live with for a week or so. However, 'Dee' was taking longer.

"Are you gonna be much longer, uh, Dee?" asked Sam.

"I can't decide." 'Dee' popped her head out of the curtained changing booth, and held out two items that looked like they might've been designed by a building firm more accustomed to box girder construction. "I like the lace on this one, but the colour of this one is amazing. What do you think?"

"Uh," Sam eyed the items as though they were poisonous snakes, "They look kind of, uh, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "Fortified. Like you're gettin' ready to go jousting, or something."

"Ladies with bigger chests are better off with something more supportive," supplied Great Aunt Muriel v1.0, giving him a conspiratorial wink. "We ladies with less up front can get away with a lot more."

"I'll have 'em both," 'Dee' decided, retreating behind the curtains once more, "Oh, hey, did you say there were matching panties for this one?"

When 'Dee' was finally satisfied that she had procured sufficient underwear, they headed for the Goodwill, intent on finding some more suitable clothing.

"None of my tees fit me," Dean sighed ruefully, looking down at the shirt stretched across his impressive chest. "Yours do, but…"

"What do you mean, mine do?" demanded Sam.

"Well, when it became obvious that mine didn't fit, I tried on one of yours," Dean explained, "But let's face it, I don't want to wear something as girly as one of your shirts."

Sam stared at him. "Dean, right now, you are about as girly as it's possible to get, without going for implants in some ridiculous size."

"Yeah, but, but," Dean clarified, "Your clothes are girly because you wear 'em, and you're girly. I'll need clothes that are properly girly."

"We're only gonna be, uh, girlified for a week or so," Sam reminded him, "So what we really need is practical, 'cause when this job is done, this stuff will either go into the attic at Bobby's, or straight back to Goodwill. Except this thing," He wiggled, and tweaked at a bra strap, "This, I will salt and burn."

"You gotta suffer to be beautiful, Sammy," Dean smiled.

"I don't care about beautiful, I'd be happier about comfortable."

"Well, I aint spendin' an entire week hangin' with a frump," declared Dean, hitching at his own bra, "Besides which, don't you complain to me about comfortable, you wear the one with underwires, then come and talk to me about… oh!" He stopped dead.

"What? What?" Sam looked around for some threat, "What is it?"

"Look! There!" Dean pointed at the window of the shop they were passing. It was a shoe shop. "See those boots? Those are totally my boots!"

"Boots?" Sam blinked, following his brother's avid gaze. "What do you want wit-HOLY CRAP!"

"I know, right?" trilled Dean.

"Look at the price!" yelped Sam.

"I am!" 'Dee' bounced on 'her' feet. "On special! It's like, it's a sign! I'm meant to have those boots!"

"Dean," Sam growled, "You do not need those boots."

'Dee' produced a pout that would have men scrambling to offer to buy her drinks, or possibly make trout want to kiss her. "I don't care if I need them, Sam," 'she' said, "I want them." Without another word, 'she' turned on her heel, and headed into the shop.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a woman in possession of disposable income is probably in want of more clothes.

Having lived with a woman, albeit briefly, Sam knew that apparel shopping was something that many of them did differently to most men: they could approach clothes shopping not so much as a trip made for the purpose of acquiring a particular item, but an excursion, an adventure, an exploration, which might turn up nothing, or might yield an unexpected discovery to the intrepid shopper. Part expedition, part pilgrimage, the act of shopping was just as important as the actual purchasing; should there be nothing purchased, the trip could still be deemed a resounding success, according to a complex formula taking into account number of items tried on, number of shops visited, number of delighted exclamations from fellow shoppers, number of coffees and cookies consumed, and a host of other factors that Man ought not wot of.

Sam had never had any interesting in wotting of it – he just accepted it as yet one more feminine mystery that he would never wot of.

Dean, however, had not just wotted of it, he had wotted of it until Sam was exhausted just watching the wotting.

"Are we done yet?" His higher-pitched female voice came out sounding decidedly whining, "My feet are killing me."

"Mine aint," Dean didn't even look up from where he was contemplating two different shades of lipstick streaked across the back of his hand, "It's like these boots were made for me." He held up two small tubes. "What do you think?" 'Devil Woman', or 'Steel Venus'?"

"If there's one called 'Scarlet Whore' go with that," griped Sam.

"You think?" Without missing a beat, Dean picked up another tube, and frowned. "I didn't think that one worked that well with my colouring, but maybe I should try it again. Actually, it would probably work better on you…"

"That was a joke!" snapped Sam, "Look, we've got all we need, we're practically out of money, can we at least get something to eat?"

"What's the matter, Sammy," Dean grinned as he headed for the counter, "Bra too tight?"

"Don't mention the b-word," growled Sam, hitching at the offending item again.

As they left the cosmetics counter, Dean checked his watch. "Oh, hey, I gotta get to my appointment," he noted.

"What appointment?" asked Sam.

"My waxing," Dean replied. "So here, you go drop this off at the car," He handed his collection of bags over, "Then go get lunch, nerd it up, do some research, eat all the lettuce you like, treat yourself, buy yourself an entire tomato and eat it all by yourself…"

"What? Waxing? Dean!" Sam struggled to control the collection of shopping bags as Dean fished the keys out of a pocket. "You can't be serious, why can't we ju-ULP!"

Sam's last sentence cut off as Dean carefully put the car keys in his teeth. "You're the bestest bestie a girl could have, bro," she grinned, "I'll catch up with you later!"

With nothing else to do, Sam turned and headed back to the car, wrangling shopping bags and thinking uncharitable thoughts.

_I hope all his follicles catch cold._

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Some coffee and some food improved Sam's mood considerably, although he was still idly contemplating wildly improbably revenge schemes as he tapped at his laptop.

_I could vandalise those boots. Or maybe just hide one. Melt his lipstick. Or dip 'em in chilli sauce, maybe. Hide his bras. No, wait, put itching powder in his bras. Rub IcyHot into 'em? Hey, what about replacing them with identical ones all a size too small…_

Eventually, his cell buzzed, and he sent his location to Dean, who showed up looking irritatingly cheerful, and carrying yet another shopping bag.

"So, do you feel like a pretty, pretty princess?" asked Sam tartly. "All primed and primped?"

"The Living Sex God does not primp, Sam," Dean informed him, "It's all about a minimum standard of personal grooming."

Sam didn't believe what he was hearing. "This from the guy who can get four wears out of one pair of shorts?"

"The whole stubble thing looks good on male me," Dean shrugged. "The mohair stockings, not so good on female me." He looked at Sam critically. "You know, I think that an eyebrow shaping would really bring your eyes out." His lips pulled into a moue of disapproval. "And I really think you need to do something with your legs too, if I'm honest."

"No!" Sam bleated, "Nobody is smearing hot wax on me and tearing hair out of my body!"

"I could do your brows for you, at least," Dean's fingers twitched as if they were just itching to start plucking.

"No, you weirdo! Keep your damned tweezers away from me!"

"Huh," Dean sniffed, "You find your first chin bristle, you'll sing a different tune." He ordered himself some food, then leaned over to look at the laptop. "So, what are we lookin' at here?"

"Fan fiction," replied Sam.

Dean sat back with a small yip of unpleasant surprise.

"Get used to it," Sam told him matter-of-factly, "We're gonna be reading it, hearing it, discussing it, and writing it, so you'd better learn at least to pretend that you like it."

"You didn't say we'd have to write it!" Dean wailed, "When did you decide we'd have to write it?"

"Since that's what this convention is all about," Sam said.

"This aint fair!" Dean sounded forlorn, "I aint gettin' paid enough to write stories about, about, about _that!"_

"It's not just the, er, you know, slash stuff," Sam informed him, "It's not a single genre being targeted. The common factor here seems to be, well, just plain bad writing. It doesn't matter what type of story you write, so long as it's written well, you're safe. All the women who've been targeted, their writing is, well, if I'm charitable, their writing is crap."

"That's charitable?" marvelled Dean.

"Yeah, that's charitable," confirmed Sam. "It's a combination of bad English expression – lousy spelling, lousy grammar – and bad story-telling that links all the victims so far," Sam explained. "So, if we go along, and write appalling stuff and put it out there for the others to critique, we should be able to draw out whatever is doing this."

"I hate this job," moaned Dean, "It hasn't even started, and I hate this job." He looked down at his feet. "At least I got these boots out of it."

"You'll only be able to wear 'em for a week," Sam said with a stab of malice.

"But for that week, I'll be awesome," Dean found a smile, then turned back to Sam. "You know, we could go back to the salon, get 'em to thread your eyebrows."

"No."

"Or at least do something about your pits. Sis."

"I said, no."

"And I'm tellin' you this as your best friend, I'm guessin' your bikini line could use some help."

"No!"

"The Amazonian Rainforest look is so eighties."

"Dean…"

""It's out with the rainforest, and in with the Brazilian Beach…"

"Oh God, I hate you."

* * *

Dean - whatever his gender, he is able to be insufferable. He could be insufferable underwater. Hell, he could be insufferable under concrete. I don't get the whole shopping thing, I'm afraid - I hate it. Hate hate hate hate hate vomit spew.

Feed Alfie-Con reviews, because Reviews Are The Lipsticks With Amusingly Bizarre Names At The Cosmetics Counter Of Life!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

"All I'm sayin' is, there's nothing wrong with giving Mother Nature a bit of help," Dean said as they Volvoed their way back to Singer Salvage. "And you clearly got a lot to work with to start with. You're not as inherently drop-dead gorgeous as me, obviously, but you aint exactly unattractive, Sam."

"Gee, thanks, I think," huffed Sam.

"False modesty sucks, bro. Er, sis. Just a little bit of foundation," wheedled Dean, "A little bit of colour."

"I really don't think I can be bothered," Sam replied, "Anyway, why would I?"

"Well, to look your best and feel good about yourself, duh," Dean told him.

"Why? If there's going to be predominantly women at this conference, who am I trying to impress?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "I've really failed to teach you anything about women, haven't I?"

_The WTF moments just keep on coming_, Sam mused resignedly.

"Look, when a chick gets dressed up to go out, maybe with her pals, maybe to find a like-minded male for informed and consensual beautiful natural acts," Dean's perfectly arched eyebrows were just as lewdly gymnastic as his usual male ones, "She's most likely not trying to impress guys. If she's goin' out with a boyfriend, she doesn't need to impress him, and if she's looking for a bit of no-strings-attached fun, then it doesn't matter what she's wearin', all the guy is really interested in is her smile and her invitation…"

"Are you sayin' that if a woman walks into a bar with a neckline cut down to here and a skirt that barely covers her ass, you're not interested?" asked Sam doubtfully.

"Of course I'm interested!" Dean answered, "I can appreciate the scenery if it's there to be looked at, but if a lady is looking for a mutually enjoyable evening, then she could be wearing a turtleneck, and still make that completely plain." Dean smiled. "Actually, the right turtleneck can both conceal and reveal."

"Well, that blue one that you bought certainly doesn't leave a lot to the imagination," humphed Sam.

"We can always stop on the way to this convention to pick up some more stuff for you," Dean offered, "I mean, why hide your light under a bushel? You shoulda gone with those pants."

"Dean, they nearly cut me in half!"

"You got wonderful long legs, Sammy," Dean insisted, "You looked totally hot in 'em!"

"I'm not interested in looking 'totally hot' if I can't breathe," snapped Sam. "And don't give me that 'suffer to be beautiful' crap. I'm not prepared to suffer from chronic hypoxia in the name of maybe making some other women resent me because I just happen to have long legs." He looked down at the worn jeans and button-down he was wearing. "I'm decently covered, and I'm comfortable."

"You could at least do something with your hair," Dean pleaded, "You got lovely hair."

"Tied back is practical, and will keep it out of the way," sniffed Sam.

"You know who you sound like?" Dean said sourly, "You sound like Ronnie. Comfortable. Practical. She aint a normal woman."

Sam gave his brother an incredulous look. "Well, of _course_ she's not a normal woman – she's a werewolf! That's about as not-normal as you can get!"

"That's not what I meant," insisted Dean, glancing in the rear view mirror and patting an errant lock of hair back into place. "She might not have a lot goin' for her in the looks department, but she could do a lot with what she's got. Her arms, for a start."

"I think she's a bit self-conscious about her build," Sam suggested, "You know how her mother tried to interfere with nature before Ronnie was even conceived. Anyway, she's pair-bonded, and doesn't care what anybody else thinks."

"And her hair," Dean sighed almost wistfully, "It's just amazing, and all she does is braid it. What a waste. I'd love to have Ronnie's hair." He shot Sam a savage look. "If you ever tell her I said that, I will end you."

"Not a peep, bro, er, sis," promised Sam.

"Good." Dean checked his own hair in the mirror again. "But she does have really gorgeous hair. I wonder if I could go just a shade lighter before we get there?"

"Fine," muttered Sam, "You go lighter, while I go mad. This is gonna be such a hoot."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Back at Singer Salvage, Lemmy and Lars – "Lennie and Lara, ya idjits" – in their Cockapoo disguises were just as enthusiastic as usual in greeting their returning Alphas, and RJ grabbed enthusiastically at Dean's chest once more with his battle cry of "Titi!"

"It's just so cute I could throw up," pronounced Bobby, as he eyed the number of shopping bags that the Winchesters lugged in. "So, you thinkin' of buyin' out any more stores this week, or are you gonna clean out the town's stocks one block a week for tax purposes?"

"It's mostly Dean's," moaned Sam, flopping heavily into a chair. "Oh, I think my legs are ready to drop off. I'm all shopped out for the next twelve months."

"Don't get too settled, Samantha," Dean cautioned, "We gotta go out tonight and hustle some pool, replenish our cash reserves, since none of the credit cards will really work whilst we're in disguise."

Sam let out an anguished groan. "I hate you so much," he grumbled.

"Financial arrangements notwithstandin'," Bobby interrupted, "I got somethin' that might help you on this job."

He headed for the living room, where he handed a small round case to Dean. It proved to be a compact mirror.

"Oh, great!" enthused Dean, checking his lipstick, "I totally forgot to get a little mirror! Thanks, Bobby, this will be really useful…"

"Not for checkin' your make-up, idjit," growled Bobby, grabbing it back, "It's a reflective superlative indicator."

Dean gave him a bemused look. "Uh, did you just say somethin' in English?"

"It's a mirror-mirror, Dean," Sam said with a roll of his eyes.

"A mirror-mirror?" echoed Dean, looking at the compact. "A mirror that shows a mirror?" He waggled his fingers between the two reflective surfaces.

"Oh, God," grumbled Sam, "No, look, you know, a mirror-mirror. As in, 'Mirror mirror on the wall, who's the fairest of them all?' Snow White? Evil Witch Queen? This ringing any bells?"

Dean looked at Bobby again. "You been consorting with some evil witch, Bobby?"

"Nope," Bobby rolled his eyes too, "The ladies of Babes On Broomsticks gave me a hand…"

"Babes On Broomsticks?" queried Dean.

"It's a loose association of white witches," Bobby shrugged, as if the info wasn't important, "I'm an honorary member. Anyway, they helped me work up this…"

"Have you ever actually ridden a broomstick?" asked Dean.

"Not at my age," sniffed Bobby. "I'm not a good enough pilot. I've taken a couple of harmless old canister jobs around the block, but broomsticks are really only safe in the hands of an expert – they're unreliable and unpredictable. Now, your brother's right," he turned to Sam, "Show him."

"It's just like in the story of Snow White," Sam explained opening the mirror and looking into it. "You ask it a comparative-superlative question, and it gives you an answer. Watch." He cleared his throat. "Mirror mirror, in my hand, Who's the jerk right where we stand?"

The glass of the mirror fogged over, like video footage of a roiling thunderhead, and a deep, sonorous voice replied:

_If it's in this room, you mean,  
Clearly, then, the jerk is Dean._

"Hey!" Dean grabbed for the mirror. "We aint takin' any talkin' witch's mirror anywhere!"

"Dean, this will be really useful!" Sam yanked the compact out of reach, "We'll be able to use it to home in on who's most likely to be the next victim at the fanfic convention!"

"Gimme that thing," Dean demanded, holding out a hand. Reluctantly, Sam handed it over. "So, it answers questions, huh?" He peered into the mirror. "So, magic mirror, who's the hottest out of us, me or Sam?"

His own reflection peered back at him.

"Huh, it's broken already," he scoffed.

"No, ya idjit," Bobby growled, "You gotta ask the right way."

"It's gotta be a rhyming couplet," Sam told him, "Or it won't work."

"Fine," Dean glared at the mirror. "Mirror Mirror, tell me true, who's the hottest of us two?"

Once more the glass clouded, and the voice issued forth.

_Three of you are standing 'round:  
Error 404: not found._

"What the fuck?" demanded Dean.

"Look, you gotta think of it like a computer," Sam said.

Dean cocked his head. "Yeah? Can I get porn on this thing? Mirror mirror, in my mitts, find me pics of gorgeous…"

"Dean, NO!" Sam snapped, giving Dean a full throttle Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "What I mean is, it can only work with what you give it. It can make comparisons, or find superlatives. And it's very literal. So, if you ask it what it considers to be an illogical question, given the information it has available, it won't be able to make sense of what you're asking."

"Great," griped Dean, "A stupid mirror." With a dramatic sigh, he tried again, "Mirror mirror, tell me true, Sam or me, who's hottest, who?"

The glass clouded…

_Sam might be the one who's smart,  
But you're the hottest, Dean, you tart._

"Perhaps you should just, uh, put this thing away until you leave," said Bobby firmly, taking possession of the compact as Dean let out a bark of outrage. "Why don't you ladies go take this stuff upstairs."

"Dean can take his," Sam humphed, picking up his decidedly smaller haul of bags, "I'm sick of carting all his crap around."

"It's not crap," Dean protested, "It's a bare minimum of what I'll need for a week away."

"A week? Dean, you got enough crap here to keep the most stereotypically air-headed bimbo going for three months!"

"No I don't – don't get on my case just because I want to do this properly."

"You were the one who objected to doin' this job at all."

"Well, if it's gotta be done, Sammy, it should be done as well as we can do it. So…"

"So?"

"So help me with my bags, bitch."

"Get 'em yourself. Tart."

Shaking his head, Bobby headed back to the kitchen, wondering if he should ask the compact a question.

_Mirror mirror, am I cursed?  
Which one should I strangle first?_

Then he sighed, and decided against it. In case it gave him an answer.

* * *

**Lampito:** Mirror mirror, in the tale, who's the bunch beyond the pale?

**Mirror:** Denizens may be depraved, but they give the reviews you've craved. So listen to the bunny chat, and write another chapter, stat.

**Lampito:** Pushy bloody mirror.


	9. Chapter 9

Bronchitis. Removal of tooth (bonus pharmaceutical discovery: oxycodone doesn't work on me, but it give me insomnia!). Veterinary dramas. Vehicular dramas. Real Life – le sigh. I keep hitting the 'ESCAPE' key, but I'm still here…

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

Dean and Sam usually avoided using their bogus credit cards or hustling pool in Sioux Falls – the phrase 'Don't be shittin' in your own nest' had been drilled into them by Bobby from an early age – but they needed cash.

"We'll never come here again lookin' like this," reasoned Dean as the Impala pulled into the lot of a bar, "So it don't matter. Anyway, we don't cheat people – we just let the greedy ones cheat 'emselves."

"That outfit might count as cheating," Sam opined, casting a disapproving glance at the ensemble that Dean had chosen. "And if you fall off those heels and break something, I'm gonna laugh all the way to the ER."

"This aint cheating, Sammy," 'Dee' flashed a winning smile, "This is just makin' the best possible use of the available terrain."

"What, by leaving as much as possible of your 'terrain' on show?"

"Exactly!"

"You look like you're here to do a pole dancing routine, not to play pool," Sam sniffed disdainfully. "And stop doing that."

"Doing what?"

"That. The Killer Smile. You walk around in that outfit, smilin' like that, the next thing we know, you'll be complaining about the guys hanging around you, drooling on your shoes."

"This is the twenty-first century, Sam," Dean replied sternly, "A woman can walk into a bar wearin' whatever she wants, and demand to be treated with respect."

Sam looked at him sideways. "Since when have you been taking classes in post-modern feminism?"

"Well, it's true," humphed Dean, "I should be able to walk in anywhere, wearin' whatever I like, and be treated like a human being. I should be able to walk in stark naked, and be treated respectfully."

"Right up until the moment you get arrested," snarked Sam. "Am I really listening to the Living Sex God burn his bra?"

"As much as I'd like to," Dean sighed gloomily, "I think it would be a bad idea. But yeah, you gotta be of age to go into a bar, right? Well, by the time you're of age, you should be able to act like an adult, and behave in a civilised fashion. Be polite, be civil, be respectful of the rights of others."

"And what if some guy tries to get fresh with you, Germaine?" asked Sam.

"Then I'll respect his right to get the shit beaten out of him for bein' an asshole," shrugged Dean, opening the car door then taking the compact from a pocket and balancing it behind the wheel. "Mirror mirror on the dash, who will go home with the cash?"

The glass swirled with billowing grey clouds and the mirror replied:

_One more button on that shirt,  
You'll hustle 'til they really hurt._

"Okay, then," grinned Dean, undoing a button on his blouse and getting out of the car, "Let's go raise some money, Sammy."

"I'm not completely happy about this," griped Sam.

"Never mind, little sis," Dean smiled sympathetically, "You never know, there might be a meeting of a debating club, or a math tute, or something – there could be a geek with your name on him in there right now, just waiting for you to show up and factorise his equations.'

"Dean…"

"It's Dee in public, Sammy. It's okay, really, no hands though, okay, but if you like the look of his pocket protector, go ahead if he wants to talk nerdy to you…"

"Jerk."

Dee and Samantha left the car, and headed in.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam had never been completely comfortable with being an object of attention; whether that was due to the way they'd grown up, with attracting attention to be avoided at all costs, or just due to his nature, he wasn't sure.

Watching 'Dee', who'd grown up with the same understanding of having to avoid attention, though, he thought that it must be a large component of nature rather than nurture, because his 'bestie' seemed determined to attract attention. Seriously. A crippled fawn wearing a bacon jacket limping past a pack of wolves would get a better score for 'avoiding attention'. A cheerleader wearing nothing but a pom-pom and a smile sashaying through a football team's locker room would get a better score for 'avoiding attention'. A chocolate cake deliberately waving itself under Ronnie Shepherd's nose whilst shouting "Eighty percent cocoa ganache and fresh cream filling, baby!" would get a better score for 'avoiding attention'.

Dee strutted in like 'she' owned the place, heels clicking and hips swaying, and headed for the bar, where the bartender made a magnificent yet ultimately unsuccessful attempt to talk to her face, got them beers, then joined her friend 'Samantha' at a table. Dee had the usual effect on the other patrons, Sam noted, that his brother Dean had whenever he swaggered into a bar oozing devil-may-care bravado and the irrepressible ambiance of the Living Sex God, only now it was the other way around: this time, men wanted to hit on her, whereas women just wanted to hit her.

"Do you have to do that?" complained Samantha.

"What?" demanded Dee with an impatient pout.

"That!" Sam snapped, "Do you have to do that thing you do?"

"What thing?" Dee asked, crossing her legs and sipping her beer.

"That, that, you know, that 'look at me' thing!" Sam clarified. "The thing with the pout, the thing with the legs, do you have to be so, so, so…"

"Awesome?" Dee's perfectly shaped brows waggled as suggestively as ever.

"Not the word I would've chosen," muttered Sam between clenched teeth.

"Calm your tits, sis," Dee grinned, "Or at least, calm your chest where your tits would be if you had any. It's all part of the act – people see an airhead who's had maybe a bit too much to drink, has too high an opinion of her capacity to play, they'll be more willing to let 'emselves get hustled."

"If you don't get your eyes scratched out first," Sam warned, watching a woman at another table smack the man accompanying her in the arm as he did a lousy job of trying not to stare at Dee.

"I may be more in touch with my feminine side than usual right now, but the Living Sex God is still capable of charming the females of the species," Dee said firmly.

"Oh, God," Sam almost wailed, "Don't you dare go 'charming' any women while you're female yourself, I don't think I could cope…"

"Don't be so unenlightened, it's the twenty-first century, sis," Dee sniffed disdainfully, "Informed, consenting adults, Sammy."

"You're so informed you could make Dr Ruth hand in her microphone, and you sure as hell will consent to just about anything," griped Samantha, "But I have my doubts about the 'adult' bit."

"My body, my choices, bitch. Come on, there's a free table."

They headed for a pool table, pausing on the way for Dee to compliment the woman who'd whacked her partner's arm on her hair, gushing about the styling and asking where she had it done.

"See?" Dee grinned and nodded in the direction of the woman, who was now smiling, "Living Sex God. Charming the females of the species, one pair of ovaries at a time."

"Yeah?" Sam racked the balls as Dee chalked her cue. Well, how do you think you'll do charming the males of the species?" Sam asked snidely, "Because there's one at the bar watchin' you like a shark watchin' a lousy swimmer who rolled in meat paste before heading out beyond the breakers."

Dee took the compact from her pocket, flipped it open casually, and studied the man who was clearly checking her out. She smiled. "Mirror mirror, in the dark, is this guy tonight's first mark?"

After a moment, the mirror replied.

_His wallet's full, he just got paid -  
He wants to play. And then get laid._

"Well, he's gonna be sadly disappointed," Dee sighed, pursing her perfectly glossed lips to blow chalk off the cue tip. She handed the mirror to Sam, then bent more than was really necessary for the break, letting her tush sway ever so slightly in the guy's direction.

They quickly fell into a slightly strange version of their usual hustle. Bar-guy did a pretty good job, Sam thought; he sat there, just appreciating the view, listening to Dee chatter and giggle as the two of them played a meandering game, before he sauntered over, drink in his hand, smile on his face, and lust wafting off him.

"Good evening ladies," he said, "Are you alone tonight?"

Samantha gave him an attenuated Bitchface™. "How can we be alone if there's two of us?" she demanded tartly.

"Oh, don't mind her, she was dropped on her libido when she was a teenager," said Dee carelessly, tossing her hair over one shoulder as she took her next shot. "Oh, damn! I had that lined up perfectly! This table is defective."

"It's your game that's defective," sniffed Sam, "I told you to lay off the Cosmopolitans."

"The table at that place was defective, too," Dee pouted, "I'm much better than this," she smiled up at bar-guy. "Really. I just need another drink…"

The poor bastard never stood a chance.

"This table's defective, I did say," Dee said sympathetically later, as her first victim for the evening drifted away, lighter of wallet, but still managing to give her a smile.

"He seems kind of happy for a guy who just got his ass whupped at pool by a blonde airhead," Samantha remarked.

"Of course he's happy," Dee replied, "He's had the pleasure of my company. And I gave him my number."

"You WHAT?" Sam's eyes bugged.

"Well, I gave him a number, and said it was mine," Dee qualified carelessly.

"You gave him some random number?" Sam's voice rose in disbelief. "So some poor unsuspecting person is gonna get a call later from some drunken horny guy tryin' to arrange to screw you?"

"It's the number for a sex chat line," Dee said, "So at least he'll have more company than just his hand."

Samantha dropped her head into her hands. "Oh, God, you're just as bad female as you are male. In fact, I think in some ways, you might be worse…"

There was brisk business in the bar; 'Dee' and 'Samantha' ran their hustle, like the seasoned pros they were. Dee was outrageously bimbo, while Samantha was relentlessly disapproving (which was not entirely an act), and they provided a certain amount of entertainment for the patrons who stayed long enough to watch a number of hopefully horny men be grabbed by the hormones, then shaken down until their teeth rattled.

"You're gonna get us thrown out of here," muttered Sam.

"I don't think so," Dee smiled smugly as she gave her most recent conquest a consoling wave, then tucked the cash away in her blouse. "See?" she indicated the bar tender, and smiled at him; he smiled back, and shook his head, clearly finding the situation amusing. "He thinks I'm adorable."

"You do realise that if you were you, you know, if you were Dean, you'd have been invited out to the lot to discuss your pool playing by now," cautioned Samantha.

"Maybe," Dee's smile managed to become even more smug, "But if any asshole tries it, he'll regret it."

"What are you gonna do?" asked Sam sourly, "Stab him with a stiletto?"

"That's a possibility," Dee shrugged, "But just punching him in the self-respect would be my first line of attack. Face it, Sammy," Dee beamed at her 'bestie', "We should use it while we got it. Tonight, aint nobody with a dick can beat me, and that's a fact."

Sam was the one who felt the presence approach, and the figurative drop in temperature, first, but Dee's metaphorical hackles went up a split second later. She actually hissed in displeasure at the figure behind them, as it dropped a fifty on the table, and drawled,

Aren't you a little short for a Nazgul, Winchester?"

* * *

Gaaaaaah! Where the #^$% did that last paragraph come from? Srsly, it just popped out of Alfie-Con just then, right at the end. What's the little… wretch up to? Feed him reviews, because they are the Useless Painkillers Hurled Aside In Favour Of A Soothing Cup Of Tea On The Couch Of Life!


	10. Chapter 10

Guess what?

It appears that I've offended somebody.

No, really.

I have no idea who, since they didn't leave a name, so let's just refer to this person as Guest.

Well, Guest is feeling a bit ticked off right now, goodness me, yes. See for yourself.

**Frankly im a little offended by some of tyhe contents of this fic.  
I get that we fic writers are sometimes a bit bad(ok alot ) at writing fanfics andf some of us just do it to satisfy are differewnt kinks. But this is what fanfic is about isnt it? the freedom to express those tini tiny ideas in you heads through writing? But to say we deserve to be killed for it is just...wrong.  
Many people arent as talented as you when it comes to writing nand only a few people had a talent for it (lampito anf elfinblue comes to mind) but there is no need to shove it in our faces. Oh and by the way, you can shove those cuddly knitted toys in the cot of life up your ass.**

To which I can only reply:

Oh, ferchrissakes, I'm sending Dean and Sam Winchester to _save_ them, aren't I? What more do you want, the bloody Fire Brigade? The Avengers? Batman?

(Actually, Dean would probably be really impressed if Batman turned up – he'd fangirl all over him.)

Because really, I don't think people should just be killed for writing bad fan fiction. Oh no. That would be unreasonable.

If I truly was in charge of That Sort Of Thing, it would be much worse than that for supposedly 'native speakers' of what in this day and age passes for English.

For example, if somebody could not tell the difference between _your_ and _you're_, the fine would arrive in a discreet brown paper envelope, and include a worksheet clearly outlining the difference. A second offence would see the offender receive another fine, with a curt letter.

A third offence would result in summary execution.

Similar inability to differentiate between _its and it's_ would also be subject to my Three Strikes And You're Dead policy. We'd have Friday night executions on a major channel. "Tonight's episode of Friday Night Execution is brought to you by The Oxford English Dictionary, now, it's over to Angelina, who is down on the killing floor, talking to one of the badger trainers, who's been working really hard on turning these normally shy creatures into blood-crazed killers for the amusement of the public…"

Those who habitually abused apostrophes would spend a couple of weeks in what I believe Jello Biafra referred to as a 're-education resort'. Failure to appreciate the differences amongst _their_ and _there_ and _they're_ would result in breeding privileges being revoked. Anyone who says or writes _I seen_ or_ I done_ will have their hair dyed green to indicate that they are a bit of a twit and should not be trusted with car keys or sharp items, and if you cannot tell the difference between _our _and _are_ you would be repeatedly thwacked with a dead chicken until you got it right or cried, for I shall be Chief Head Grammar Nazi Boss In Charge and I shall rule with an iron ruler, and I shall wield my Red Pen Of Office mercilessly, and every time I have to write the word _necessary_ I shall have to put my own head through the wall because I always get that word wrong at least twice before I get it right and I have to set an example because we must have STANDARDS and I shall be DANAEL ON EARTH.

There will be carrots as well as sticks: those who can use _who_ and _whom_ correctly, and can tell the difference between _practice_ and _practise_, will receive extra chocolate cookies; I am not completely heartless.

Let them hate me, so long as they fear me. And spell correctly when daubing public buildings with graffiti declaring me to be the spawn of Satan.

I will of course have to make allowances for non-native speakers, and those visiting from other countries – should any of our Merkan cousins from the YouSay come to visit, you will not be shot for leaving the u out of favour or flavour or savour, but before you disembark from your plane please watch the screen for a quick tutorial on how to spell and pronounce the word _aluminium_…

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

_If we were in a bar in the Wild West,_ mused Sam, _The piano player would just have played a minor chord, and everybody at the bar would've put down their glasses and turned to bring their weapons to availability, just to remind the two confrontees that these things should be settled nice and quiet like, or at least outside, where any brawling would not interrupt anybody else's drinking or gambling._

As it was, only a couple of guys at the next pool table noted with interest the sudden tang of bitch in the air.

"What the hell are you doin' here?" Dee hissed through clenched teeth.

"I'm on my way to Bobby's," was the answer. "I got a load of silver ammo for him, and I thought I'd stop in and have a drink. Then, when my nose started to tell me that the stunning blonde at the pool table was actually you, I just had to check it out, to see whether I was going nuts."

"That obviously already happened a long time ago," snapped Dee. "So, you can just piss off and have a drink somewhere else."

_Of course,_ Sam sighed inwardly, _If this was the Wild West, everybody at the bar could just open up and shoot 'em, and that would be the end of the problem._

_So long as at least a few of 'em were loaded with silver, anyway. Maybe if the Lone Ranger was at the bar…_

"Calm your tits, Winchester," smiled Ronnie, taking a drink from her beer. "Although I realise that those tits will take a lot of calming."

"How the fuck did you know it was me?" demanded Dee.

"The nose knows," Ronnie tapped the detecting appendage. "I could smell Winchester underwater. Hell, I could smell Winchester under cement. I can certainly smell Winchester under a layer of oestrogen." She sighed. "You'll probably get a giggle out of knowing that I'm officially seething with envy, right now."

"Yeah?" Dee sounded uncertain.

"Seriously. When I was feeding Connor then Sabine, both of mine put together wouldn't have amounted to one of yours. It pains me to admit that you're a total babe, Winchester – I'm turning green as we speak."

"Well," Dee preened a little, "We can't help what the genetic lottery gives us."

"I bet that's what Sam thinks every time he looks at you," grinned Ronnie, as Dee let out a small shriek of outrage. "Gday, Sam. Or is it Samantha?"

"Uh, hi, Ronnie," Sam replied, as she cocked her head and studied them both.

"So, either of you want me to call you Loretta now?" she asked with some amusement. "Or is there some other reason why your big bro is now drop-dead gorgeous with a killer walk, a killer bum, and truly bodacious tatas?"

"We're workin' a job where we need a disguise," Sam explained, "So we gotta go undercover. Really, really undercover."

Ronnie hummed thoughtfully as she studied them both. "You don't look all that different," she mused, "I mean, you still look like you, just much prettier versions of you." She paused. "Of course, Dean, you were damned pretty to begin with…"

"It's Dee," griped the older Winchester.

"Name, or cup size?" asked Ronnie solicitously.

Dee's eyes fell on the note on the pool table. "I can still kick your ass, you do understand that?" she smiled dangerously.

"It's not fair, really," Ronnie sighed dramatically again, "Because your arse is such a tiny, pert little target, I don't have much to aim at."

"My ass could be the size of a barn, and you couldn't kick it," Dee sniffed loftily, then paused. "You really think it's pert?"

"Just as much as the rest of you," confirmed Ronnie. "You're an attractive woman, Dee."

A small smile bloomed on Dee's face. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely," nodded Ronnie with a grin, "I'd do you."

Dee let out a small snarl as she put down a fifty. "So, are you yappin', or are you playin'?" she demanded.

"Whoa, hakuna those tatas, girlfriend," Ronnie took a coin from a pocket to toss for the break. "Although your chest does heave in a really interesting way when you're angry…"

Sam sighed as the game got underway. As a rule, whenever they crossed paths, it was better for Dean and Ronnie not to play pool (or, in fact, any kind of competitive game – he still had shudder-inducing memories of a rainy afternoon and a game of Monopoly that had seen London destroyed, the racecar airborne, the little dog inhumanely treated and blood drawn), but you might as well jam two atoms of plutonium together and tell them to play nicely.

He looked around at the men in the bar who'd picked up on the vibe, and were watching to see if a truly interesting catfight would actually develop, and thought that if it did, perhaps he could at least sell tickets.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"You should've let me kick her ass," griped Dean as they headed back to Singer Salvage.

"You did," Sam reminded him, "You beat her twice."

"But she beat me twice!" complained Dean, "We shoulda gone to best out of five!"

"Not with all those guys watching," Sam said firmly. Something of a crowd had gathered, drawn by the heady mix of female trash talk and oestrogen , to watch two women who exuded danger play pool: both were excellent players, and the collective regret that the gorgeous model type and the muscle chick only had a pool table and not a pool of jello in which to compete with each other was tangible. "That's the sort of attention we really want to avoid."

"She's a perv," Dean muttered, "Sayin' stuff like that. Like I'd ever, ever, let her do me."

"She was just sayin' it to rattle you," Sam pointed out, "And it worked. She's not stupid; the best way to discomfort the Living Sex God is to poke him right in the gender identity, and she knows it."

"She was lookin' at my ass!"

"EVERYBODY was lookin' at your ass!" snapped Sam. "The way you walk, the way you stand, it's as if your body was designed to make everybody look' at your ass!"

"Yeah, well, she wasn't supposed to," griped Dean sulkily. "You shoulda let me beat her." He fished the mirror out of a pocket and opened it then dropped it on the seat between them. "Mirror mirror, you're no fool, tell me who'd have won at pool."

_Tonight, it would've gone your way_  
_And Ronnie would've had to pay._

"See?" declared Dean, "I woulda won. The mirror doesn't lie. Because I'm just more awesome than her. Mirror mirror, don't demur, who was hotter, me or her?"

_Everyone saw you were hot;_  
_Everyone saw she was not._

"Damn straight," Dean nodded with satisfaction, as Sam rolled his eyes. "I can kick her ass any time I want."

_Ronnie is a werewolf, Dean;_  
_In a fight, your clock she'd clean._

"Hey, nobody asked you!" snapped Dean as Sam burst out laughing. "Smartass mirror. I thought it only talks if you ask it a question the right way?"

"The mirror never lies," Sam said with a smile, "And it's entitled to an opinion, same as all of us." He picked up the mirror. "And she actually said nice things about you," he told his scowling 'bestie', "She told you how attractive you are. For one woman to admit that another is attractive like that, that's a big compliment, bro, er, sis."

"She's just jealous," muttered Dean.

"Yep, she told you that," Sam agreed. "You might be a bit more thankful about how you turned out, you know – there was no guarantee that just because you're an attractive man, you'd turn out to be an attractive woman." Because Dean's immaturity had annoyed him, he went on. "It could've been very different."

Dean looked thoughtful. "How, different?"

"Well, you could've ended up looking a lot less, you know, feminised," Sam mused, "You could've not gained the undoubtedly female assets you've now got. You could've carried a lot more of 'Dean' over into 'Dee'." He paused, then gave the knife a small twist. "You could've ended up less like you did, and more like Ronnie."

Dean shot Sam a horrified look. "But… but… she's… she's not… and she's got…"

"Uh-huh," nodded Sam, "So, you might try to be a bit grateful, and maybe a bit nicer."

The idea of having changed into anything except the female equivalent of the Living Sex God sank in. "Shit," Dean breathed, "That would've been… a disaster. I mean, I could've turned out totally unhot."

"Could've," Sam noted, "You really dodged a bullet on that one."

Dean seemed more thoughtful for the rest of the drive back to the yard. He even went so far as to say a polite 'good night' to Ronnie before she headed up to the room where she'd be staying before heading back the next day.

In fact, he surprised everybody by being civil, even going so far as to make her a coffee the next morning while he made his own, before she set out for an early start.

"I wonder what's gotten into him?" mused Sam, watching Dean wave as the truck pulled out of the yard.

"No idea," Bobby scratched his head, "Maybe it's them feminine hormones, appealin' to his nurturin' side?"

"Well, I wish he'd keep his hormones to himself," Sam muttered, "And not let them ooze out all over the place. A guy at the bar last night asked Dee if she'd like to be the stripper at a friend's buck's night."

"Yeah?" Bobby's eyebrows went up. "So, did he have friends to take him to the ER after he got punched out?"

"Oh, he just got a knee in the balls," Sam shrugged, "It was the guy who tried to grab 'her' ass who got punched out."

"God's tits," muttered Bobby, "You be careful if you go out on this job, Sam, somebody asks him for a lap dance there will be blood on the walls and the cops will take an interest…"

Dean came striding back indoors, smiling. "So, you packed, Samantha, or you still waitin' for your heated rollers to cool down so you can put 'em in your bag?"

"Why are you so cheerful?" demanded Sam without preamble. "Why were you being so, so _nice_ to Ronnie?"

Dean's face became serious. "I was thinkin' about what you said, last night," he replied, "About how I should be grateful that I turned out like I did. Totally hot. Because I might not have done. And bein' catty to a woman who's totally _un_hot, whereas I'm so hot, well, it's just bitchy." He drew himself up straight. "And I'm a bigger person than that. We women should be supportin' each other, not sabotagin' each other."

Sam blinked. "Who are you, and what have you done with my brother?" he demanded.

"It's still me, Sammy," Dean smiled, and bent to pick up RJ, who grabbed eagerly for Dean's assets with his now familiar war-cry of _Titi!_ "Just tryin' to have some sympathy for those less fortunate – and less hot – than myself. So, tiger, you're gonna have to stay with Grandpa Bobby while we go and take care of this job, okay?"

RJ's face assumed an expression of bewilderment; he reached out for Dean's chest again. "Titi?"

"I'm afraid they're attached," Dean told him ruefully, "But we'll be back in a week, okay, and you'll be here with Grandpa Bobby, like always, and…"

RJ's eyes welled, and his bottom lip wibbled. "Titi, titi," he moaned sadly, his little face crumbling.

"Oh, hey little dude," crooned Dean, lifting the boy to his shoulder as his son let out the droning prelude to a wail, "It's okay, we won't be gone long, I promise…"

"Tiiiiiitiiiiiiii," wailed RJ between sobs, "Tiiiiiiitiiiiiiii, tiiiiiiitiiiiiiii."

Dean's face was bewildered. "What the hell's wrong?" he asked, jiggling the crying boy, "He's never minded when we go do a job before!"

"Uh, I don't think it's us he's worried about," Sam began, "So much as, uh, you know," he waved his hands vaguely at bust height. "I think he's really disappointed at having your, uh, assets arrive, and now they're gonna leave him."

"He's yours, all right," humphed Bobby, turning to take a call as his phone chirped.

"Oh, is that it, RJ?" asked Dean, "You've formed an attachment?"

"Tiiiitiiiii," RJ grizzled, grabbing for the objects of veneration.

"Well, we'll have to fix that before we go," Dean said brightly. "Sam, go get your knitting stuff. Before we leave, you gotta knit RJ some tits."

Sam's mouth dropped open. "Huh?"

"Tits," Dean repeated. "Tits. Boobs. Hooters. Gazongas. Fun bags. I know that you know what they are, because I taught you when you were in grade school…"

"I heard what you said," Sam interrupted, "I know what tits are, Dean."

"Good," Dean grunted, "Because you gotta knit some toy tits for RJ."

"Dean, I can't do that!" Sam yelped.

"Sure you can," Dean said airily, "You knitted Stanley the honey badger, right? And you knit those beanies with the dog ears on, yeah? So, just knit a pair of tits. It's okay, it won't take you long, and we can leave a bit later, it's only a few hours to Chicago…"

"Dean, I cannot knit a pair of boobs for your son!"

"Sure you can – a man who can knit a honey badger can knit a pair of boobs."

"I mean, giving a child a pair of boobs as a stuffed toy is just wrong!"

"Look, I'd buy something on the internet, you can get 'em from Japan…"

"Oh my God, you've looked up toy boobs on the net?"

"Well I wasn't looking for toy boobs, okay, I just found these cushions while I was lookin' at somethin' else. Point is, we need a pair of boobs, and we need 'em fast. So, get knitting."

"No!"

"Samantha, I ORDER you to knit a pair of tits for my son! You get your needles, and you go get some stuff from your yarn stash, ohhhh yeah, I know aaaaaall about your dirty little secret, you hide it like a teenager tryin' to hide a porn mag, you go get your stuff, and you make with the titty-knitty, right now!"

"Dean…"

"They don't have to be Caucasian, if you don't have any pink yarn. I can tell you from experience, they're beautiful whatever colour skin a woman has."

"Dean…"

"Not blue, though, and not green, I think we should keep it feasible, and RJ's not old enough to understand about Andorians or Twileks yet."

"Dean…"

"But a contrasting colour would be nice for the…"

"NO!"

Bobby, who had retreated from the kitchen, returned with his face looking grim. "If you two ladies have stopped swingin' your handbags at each other, we got a development."

"What is it?" asked Sam.

"That was Dave," Bobby continued. "He's on the trail of somethin' real nasty, probably hitched a ride on a visitin' museum artefact. He needs a couple o' books, and a couple o' things I got, and somebody who can decipher Sumerian. I gotta go help him; this can't wait."

"Bobby, you hardly know any Sumerian," protested Sam.

"Which is more than him," Bobby grunted, "So, I gotta haul ass six hours ago." He nodded at RJ. "And I sure as hell aint takin' a kid near anything like this."

"You hear that, RJ?" Dean smiled brightly, wiping the boy's tears away, "You don't have to stay with Grandpa Bobby – you can come with us!"

* * *

In the Jimiverse, Sam learned to knit while scouting out a stitch &amp; bitch session in 'Teacher's Pet'. And Dean has found his yarn stash. How embarrassing.

What is Dean up to? Why was he so civil to Ronnie? Speak, Alfie-Con, speak! Send him delicious reviews, then, as Guest suggests, Shove The Comfy Knit Toys In The Cot Of Life Up Your Ass!*#

*Or not. Not shoving things up your ass is fine, if you don't want to.

#Just be warned that, since this is the Jimiverse, doing this to donkeys may result in you receiving a visit from Raphael, who takes the well-being of donkeys everywhere VERY SERIOUSLY.


	11. Chapter 11

Yes, as much as it discombobulates me to say it, you can buy teddy tits on the interwebs. Dear Japan, WTF? Sincerely, the rest of the world...

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

Sam stared at his brother. "Dean, do you really want to take your kid on a Hunt?"

"Well, he can't stay here by himself, duh," Dean rolled his eyes.

"But he's only a toddler!" protested Sam.

"He's a Winchester, Sammy," Dean replied, "He's got it in his blood."

"Titi!" piped RJ helpfully.

"Look, we got as much intel as we can get without actually being there," Sam went on, "It's not too late to pass this on to another Hunter, and…"

"No," snapped Dean, "We are NOT passing this Hunt to anyone, you hear me?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, what about Ronnie? She already knows about fan fiction, if we call her, she could turn around, and…"

"No," Dean insisted; a vaguely evasive expression passed over his face so quickly that only Sam or Bobby would've noticed it, and even then, Sam, who had gained a PhD in Deanology before he hit his teen hears, wasn't completely sure he'd seen it. "Don't bother Ronnie, I'm sure she's got other stuff she needs to be doin'."

"Are you sure about this, son?" Bobby echoed Sam's concern. "I could maybe see if somebody could watch him…"

"He'll be fine," Dean stated firmly. "We're goin' after something that's targeting women, not kids. And he's a Hunter. Ronnie says she can smell it on him already. Besides, it'll be great for our cover. We're just a couple of friends, takin' some time off to attend a fanfic convention to improve our writing, and I can enjoy some quality time with my kid at the same time. He'll have you to watch him, and he'll have the dogs to watch him…"

"They've been Cockapoo-ed," Sam reminded him.

"They're still part-Hellhound," Dean said, "Physical form don't mean squat to a Hellhound, you know that. And the females of the species can be more deadly than the males, after all."

Bobby contemplated the two curly-coated dogs: 'Lennie' looked up at him with 'her' usual good-natured if somewhat clueless happy expression, whilst 'Lara' bore 'her' habitually reserved mien that suggested she was waiting to see if an opportunity to solicit treats from gullible humans might arise.

"The thing about Poodle blood is, it can make a dog smart," he ventured. "Very intelligent breed, Poodles."

"Well, could be an improvement," mused Sam, studying 'Lennie'. "Your dog definitely got the cocker spaniel ears – let's hope 'she' doesn't have the purely cocker spaniel brain to go with it."

"Yeah, well, let's hope it don't make your dog any more of a calculatin' little asshole," growled Dean. "So, he's got you, he's got the dogs, and of course, in anythin' looks sideways at him I'll kill it. No problemo."

Sam gave his brother – his bestie? It was going to do his head in, he'd decided – a long look. "Fine. We take RJ, use him to charm women, and kill anybody who looks at him funny. Why didn't I think of that?"

"Sometimes simple is best, Sammy," grinned Dean, "And at least you won't have to knit a pair of tits for him."

"Titi!" yelled RJ with enthusiasm.

"Okay, we'll change that to, 'You can knit him a pair of tits on the way'."

"Dean, I am NOT knitting a pair of cuddly toy boobs for your kid!"

"Sure you can – think what great cover it would be, a woman sittin' and knittin', nobody will look twice."

"They will if they bother to look at what I'm knitting!"

"You can just tell 'em that you're knittin' 'em for yourself because your chicken fillets gave you a contact allergy."

"I hate you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Both RJ and the dogs had become happier travellers as they grew, but Dean checked the stash of old towels anyway just in case of an Enfecalation or Regurgitation Event of Level Two or higher. Between the dogs' excited barking, and RJ's enthusiastic hooting and clapping (interspersed with occasional cries of "Titi!"), and Dean's bitter complaints about having his Baby turned into a powder blue Volvo, it was a noisy departure from Singer Salvage.

"Does the seat have to be this far forward?" complained Sam.

"Yeah, it does," replied Dean, "Unless you want me to put us into a tree, or something."

"Figures," grunted Sam. "You're still bossy and short. We change into women, you're bossy and short. We changed into dogs, you were bossy and short. If we changed into giraffes, you'd still be bossy and short."

"I'm not short!" snapped Dean, rolling his shoulders. "Damn, I hate the underwire thing."

"You're shorter than Ronnie," Sam commented slyly.

"No I aint," Dean shot back, "I was lookin' down at her the whole time last night."

"That's only because of the heels you were wearing," sniffed Sam. He fished the compact out of the console, and opened it. "Mirror mirror, be the sorter, Dee or Ronnie, who was shorter?"

_Wearing killer heels was cheating;  
Dean you're shorter, so stop bleating._

"That thing is defective," growled Dean, as Sam laughed and shut the compact.

"Speaking of Ronnie," wheedled Sam as he pulled out his cell, "She's not too far gone to turn around and look after RJ for us – you know how much she likes him, and he loves to watch her do the thing with her fangs…"

"NO!" yapped Dean, "Don't you dare call her!"

"Look, she could meet us there, pick him up, so we don't lose any time," Sam continued, "I think you're right about her not taking the Hunt – she walks in looking like herself, with a Rottweiler bitch, the minute she opens her mouth and that accent falls out she might get rumbled, and I can't see her being willing to pretend she's cosplaying herself, that'd just be weird…" The fleetingly guilty look that he'd seen earlier flitted across Dean's immaculately made-up face once more. "What?"

"What what?" asked Dean, completely casual.

"You had that look on your face," Sam said.

"What look?" asked Dean guilelessly.

"That look," repeated Sam.

"What, my usual awesomeness?" Dean's female version of The Killer Smile packed the same megaton wattage as its usual version.

"No, not your CFM face," Sam growled, "I saw your 'I've Done Something' face."

"Well, I've, uh, done lots of things," Dean pointed out. "This morning I brushed my teeth, I cleansed and toned and moisturised, I filed my toenails – I wonder if I'd have time to get a pedi while we're there…"

"No, your 'I've _Done_ Something' face," Sam insisted. "The expression you get when you've done something and you're hoping you won't get found out. You had it this morning."

"No, I didn't," protested Dean.

"Yeah you did."

"No, I didn't."

"Yeah, you did."

"Sam, really, I didn't."

"You totally did!" insisted Sam. "You've been doin' that expression since you were a kid, and your poker face is better now, but it was still there. It's the expression that crosses your face when you eat the last of the bacon, and try to blame the dogs. It used to be there when Dad told you to stay in, but you'd sneak out to go get into a bar or meet a girl. It used to be there when Bobby told you to stay out of his booze. It's there when you use my shower stuff after I tell you not to, you jerk. And this morning, it was there, when I mentioned Ronnie." His eyes narrowed. "So, what have you done?"

"I haven't done anything…"

Sam let out a huff, and gave his brother a searing Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk).

Dean's expression was all wounded innocence. "No, seriously, I haven't done anything. Much."

Sam cranked up the Bitchface™ intensity.

"Look, I haven't done anything bad, okay?"

Dean thought he might be able to feel his underwires heating up…

"My motives were totally pure, and helpful, Sam, I did a good thing."

"Dean," Sam's tone was level and pleasant, the tone of a professional woman who comes home from work to find a trail of footprints in green paint leading to a child's room along the newly laid hallway carpet, "What have you done?"

"Well," began Dean, "After you started talkin' about how lucky I was to have become such a hot woman last night, I got to thinkin'."

"That right there is dangerous," muttered Sam.

"Yeah, well, I got to thinkin' about how Ronnie is so much less hot than me," Dean went on, "And how I should be, you know, nicer to the less fortunate."

"With you so far," nodded Sam, "Not in the least bit reassured, but with you so far."

"Yeah, so, I started thinkin', it would be a really nice thing to do, to do something for her," Dean said earnestly, "Because I should be charitable to the less fortunate."

"By which you mean, the less hot than you," Sam clarified.

"Exactly!" Dean beamed. "So, at breakfast this morning, I made her a cup of coffee before she left."

"Yeah, I noticed that," Sam commented, "And I kind of wondered… oh, Jesus, Dean, tell me you didn't put a laxative or something in there, you jerk…"

"No!" Dean cut him off, "No! Absolutely not!"

"Well,what was it?" demanded Sam. "A diuretic? Because if this is some hare-brained idea of yours to help Ronnie become more 'hot' by somehow losing weight or something, then…"

"No, Sam," Dean said with conviction, "No. I didn't put any meds at all her coffee. I didn't. Anyway, Ronnie doesn't need to lose weight. It would help if she could rearrange what she's got, maybe, but she doesn't really need to lose any…"

"What did you do, Dean?" asked Sam through clenched teeth. "What did you put in Ronnie's coffee?"

"Nothing!" insisted Dean, "Nothing! Well, apart from coffee."

"Just coffee?"

Coffee. And an extra spoon of instant, to give it a bit more oomph, she likes that."

"That all?"

"And some sugar."

"Sugar."

"Uh-huh. And a bit of hot water, to make sure it was nice and hot."

"Coffee, and coffee, and sugar, and water."

"Right. And a bit of cream, because she likes that sometimes."

"Coffee, coffee, sugar, water, and cream."

"That's all, Sam."

"Okay, then."

"Plus some of YiaYia Midget's Make-You-A-Hot-Woman potion."

Sam let out a shriek of outrage that was so loud it woke up the dogs in the back seat, and drew an answering squeal and a round of applause from RJ.

"_You did what?"_ he shrieked, giving his brother a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't_ Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!), _"Are you NUTS?"_

"Look, think about it," said Dean in a reasonable voice, "From rock bottom, she can only go up, yeah?"

"Dean, it doesn't necessarily work like that!" yapped Sam anxiously, "Spell-casting is not an exact science, you have to know exactly what you're doing!"

"I do know what I'm doing!" insist Dean, "Look, I only put a little bit in there, so it'll just, you know, give her a little lift."

"What are you now, a cosmetic surgeon?" asked Sam trenchantly. "Which bits are you suggesting she needs to get 'lifted'?"

Dean hummed thoughtfully. "Well, maybe not so much 'lifted', as 'nipped and tucked'. Or possibly 'cut off' and 'ground back'. That jaw, for a start, even a quarter inch off each side, and just trim down those arms, maybe take a bit off the shoulders, and graft it onto where her bust should be…"

Sam groaned, and dropped his head into his hands. "I don't believe you've done this."

"I know," sighed Dean, "Neither do I. Given that it's Ronnie. But I actually feel really good about doin' something nice for her. It must be my female nurturing side comin' out."

"We gotta call her," said Sam, "We gotta let her know, so she can go back to Bobby's and…"

"Bobby aint there," Dean reminded him, "He's off gabblin' Sumerian at some malevolent artefact. Don't call her – I want it to be a surprise."

"Dean, I don't think you realise just how much of a surprise it might be."

"Yeah, it could really be amazing!" Dean enthused, "Goodbye ugly duckling, hello swan, goodbye Amelie, hello Maria, goodbye Brienne, hello Daenerys…"

"Well, maybe if it wasn't much, it won't actually have any effect," Sam mused uncertainly. "From Brienne to Daenerys, huh?"

"Got a thing about eatin' hearts already," Dean grinned, completely unrepentant.

Sam slumped in the seat. "Fine. But if she comes after you with an angry, hungry dragon, don't come bitching to me."

* * *

Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. The whole spellcraft thing really isn't Dean's forte, Cas knows what will happen now. 'Dee' really isn't doing anything to help dispel the stereotype of the dippy blonde, is she?

So, Alfie-Con finally has them off to the convention. Which sessions will they attend? Who will they meet there? Will Dee manage to get a decent pedi? Tune in next chapter! (Watch out for any dragons, actual or metaphorical).


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

They stretched the trip to Chicago over two days, and by the time they arrived, Dean had worked himself (herself? Sam was glad it was only for a week or so, he'd seriously never get the hang of the whole female thing) into a grump.

"I hate this female thing," griped Dean.

"Look, it's only for a few more days," Sam reminded his brother, "Then it's back to testosterone central."

Dean glared at his son, who sat in his seat in the back, flanked by the dogs. RJ had gleefully sung along to his father's selected music, although instead of his usual babbling noises, his renditions now seemed to consist of various rhythms and syncopations of the syllable 'ti'. "It's a good thing you're so cute, little dude," he muttered, "Otherwise, I'd have slapped you by now."

"Well, he's Dean Winchester's kid," Sam shrugged, "So it's not completely surprising that he's totally fascinated by your, uh, chest."

"Aint nothin' wrong with bein' fascinated by the female form," Dean said, "But there's ways and ways to approach it, is what I'm sayin'."

"Well, you like to get your hands on 'em," Sam pointed out somewhat trenchantly, "So you really can't get on your kid's case if he wants to do the same."

"I can if he's doin' it with all the finesse of an octopus!" yapped Dean.

"He's just a kid!" Sam rolled his eyes. "He's a toddler! He's nowhere near old enough to understand about that sort of thing."

"He's old enough to know about not hurtin' the dogs," Dean muttered, "So he can learn not to grab Daddy's nipples like they're space hopper handles!"

Sam gave his brother a sideways look. "There's something very wrong about what you just said right there," he ventured.

"I mean it, Sam," Dean went on, "I understand the attraction of a fine rack, I really do, but seriously, he leaves bruises!"

"Titi!" RJ contributed from the back seat, with a happy wave of Stanley the honey badger.

"Yeah, I'm talkin' about you," Dean told his boy, "What the hell do you think you're doin', tryin' to tune an old receiver in to Radio Boobs? You really have to knit him a pair of teddy tits, bro."

"I am NOT knitting your son a pair of toy tits," Sam stated firmly. "Besides," he couldn't keep the amusement out of his voice, "It seems to have the happy side effect of keeping you from ogling women."

"Yeah, well, havin' a kid grabbin' at your chest and tryin' to, I dunno what he was doin', trying to push 'em together to make one big one maybe, it's kind of distracting," Dean grumped. "Seriously, trying to appreciate a woman is not easy when it feels like you're bein' groped by Pliers Man. Next time I'm having trouble shifting a bolt on one of the junkers at the yard, I'll just get RJ to try, the kid has fingers like a pair of vice grips…"

Sam gave his brother a calculating look. "Who knew that would be what it took to stop you from ogling women wherever we go?" he mused. "Maybe after this job, I can use this information – just get you a pair of nipple clamps, perhaps, and…"

"Yaaaaaargh!" Dean let out a yodel of outrage. "Shut up, you perv."

"Don't mind your dad, RJ," Sam smiled as he addressed his nephew, "He's just cranky because he can't chat up women, and men keep tryin' to chat him up."

"Huh," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "I wouldn't call it 'chatting up'. They have no charm, no finesse, and absolutely no talent – as The Living Sex God, I am embarrassed for them by their efforts. I wish they'd just go away, and leave me alone."

"Not much chance of that, so long as you're wearing that disguise," Sam replied cheerfully – watching Dean attract unwanted attention from men, and watching Dean attempt to brush them off as politely as possible (which, under the circumstances, meant 'without throwing a punch'), had proved to be more entertaining than he'd thought it would be.

"Even with a kid, you'd think they'd take a hint," Dean complained. "You don't help," he threw over his shoulder to RJ, "Being engaging and friendly and adorable is all well and good when you do it to women, but not when it just encourages men to stare at Daddy's boobs."

Sam considered making a crack about choosing a nicer guy and letting him rub them better, but thought better of it. "You could always just tell 'em you're gay," he suggested.

"Won't work," sighed Dean, "The Living Sex God transmits straightness vibes in the megawatt range. Besides, I already tried it, on that guy where we stopped for dinner last night. If anything, it seemed to encourage him."

Sam was on the alert. "What did he do?" he asked tensely.

"He looked at you, and asked if he could join us," growled Dean in outrage, "Seriously, what sort of a pervert would want to do that?"

Sam looked squarely at his brother. "Well, you, for a start," he answered promptly.

"That's different," Dean snapped.

"How?" demanded Sam. "How is it different?"

"It's… it's… look, I'm the Living Sex God, okay?" Dean snapped, "I could show two ladies a good time if they were interested, which is more than any of those sad failures could manage – they're just interested in gettin' off to a free show."

"Right," Sam sighed, resigned, "Right, because you're the Living Sex God. Totally different. Got it."

"Totally," Dean nodded. "So, when do we hit this weirdofest?"

"Tomorrow," Sam replied, "And you're gonna have to at least pretend to be enthused about being there." He looked down at the back-up laptop he was working on; Dean glanced across, and let out a pained yelp.

"Hey, don't delete that!" he protested.

"You're gonna need a working laptop for this," Sam told him, removing another spyware program, "So no surfing porn while we're on this job – keep it virus-free until the job's done. You can start work on your fanfic tonight."

"Oh, it just gets better and better," moaned Dean, "No women, no porn, and on top of that there's homework. Welcome to Hell."

"Once we find somewhere to stay, why don't you go get yourself that pedi?" suggested Sam, thinking that wrangling his nephew solo for a couple of hours would be worth it if it would get his bitching big brother out of his hair. "Me and RJ can entertain ourselves, and a little bit of me-time will make it all seem less crappy."

Apparently, he pushed the correct button, because 'Dee' seemed to brighten up at that idea. "That's a great idea, Sammy!" 'she' trilled. "You're the best brother – or bestie – a girl could have."

They found a motel of a higher than usual standard – when RJ travelled with them, Dean insisted on a slightly higher rating than the usual zero-point-four star places they frequently patronised, but even so, Sam was somewhat taken aback by the establishment that Dean finally settled on.

"Is this absolutely necessary?" he asked, eyeing the spacious bathroom with a deep tub.

"Absolutely!" 'Dee' insisted, taking in the toiletries on the sink, "Although I'll see if I can get us something nicer than this stuff."

"Fine, fine," nodded Sam, deciding that going with the flow was going to be the only way to cope with his 'sister' and her feminine proclivities as and when they emerged.

'Dee' perused a local directory, made a call, and then set off as soon as they'd lugged their gear into their room. "I'll bring back something for dinner," 'she' promised, "And maybe some volumising conditioner for you."

"Uh, yeah, thanks," Sam said faintly, watching as Dee flashed a brilliant smile, then headed for the car. He turned to his nephew, who was sitting on the sofa between the two dogs, contentedly chewing on Stanley. "So," he told RJ, "Looks like it's just you and me, kiddo. And the ladies here, of course." He moved to the couch. "We should probably check if you need to be changed, after that trip."

"Titi?" RJ said hopefully, holding his arms out.

"Well, technically," Sam informed him as he picked the boy up. "Not nearly as impressive as your, uh, let's say, your parent's, I'm just not comfortable talkin' about your dad's boobs, I'm really not."

RJ hummed thoughtfully, and poked experimentally at Sam's chest before looking up with a disappointed expression. "Meh," he pronounced.

"You sweet talking Romeo, you," muttered Sam. "And here I was, about to suggest that we do a Dean Winchester cosplay with you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam had been an eager student through all of his schooling: from elementary through college, he had enjoyed learning, enjoyed improving his knowledge and academic skills, and enjoyed attaining a high standard in all the subjects he applied himself to. Dean had always protested that getting too educated would compromise his abilities as a Hunter, convinced that it made him 'Think too much'. Don't overthink it, Sam, his big brother would insist, Don't try to analyse it, critique it, deconstruct it, reconstruct it, reinterpret it, explain elaborate discuss contrast or compare – it's a job. Work out what it is, and how to kill it. That's what we do, we identify fuglies at work, then we find 'em, fuck 'em, and forget 'em.

Sam had always strenuously disagreed with that, but he was reluctantly coming to the conclusion that on this one occasion, on this one very specific occasion alone, his brother might be onto something.

As a keen reader from an early age, he had been fascinated by words, and the language they made, the ways they could be strung together and manipulated to evoke certain moods, ideas or idioms.

As someone who had at one time been on track for a career as a lawyer, Sam was someone who could use the English language, and use it well. He could express himself clearly, or he could obfuscate and complicate, filibuster and farnarkle until the cows came home, the universe ended, or the opposition just gave up in bewildered bemusement and went away. He could wield it like a sledgehammer or a scalpel as the situation demanded. He could make it get up and dance, he could bend it over and make it his bitch, he could identify the subjunctive (formulaic or mandative) in the wild.

As an unreformed and unrepentant grammar nazi, the mere sight of an apostrophe being maltreated was enough to set his teeth grinding.

All of which had set him up to discover something about fan fiction:

Writing bad fan fiction when you are not genuinely bad at writing fan fiction is bloody difficult.

"It shouldn't be that hard," he told RJ uncertainly, "I've read enough of it recently, all I have to do is, kind of, uh, reproduce that sort of writing, how hard can it be?"

When all your intellectual instincts are screaming at you to stop, pretty damned hard, as it turned out.

After fifteen fruitless minutes of trying to start a fanfic equivalent of 'It was a dark and stormy night', Sam huffed, and shut the document.

This was like any other job, he told himself sternly, he just needed to do a bit of systematic research first, make some notes, identify the key features of a bad fan fiction. All he had to do was get into the mindset of somebody who enjoyed reading _Supernatural_ stories, and write stuff that those people would be sure to find execrable.

With grim determination, he sat RJ on his lap, opened a couple of fan fiction sites, and began to browse, checking review numbers and comments against the content of stories. As RJ chewed on Stanley and babbled to himself, pausing occasionally to check Sam's chest for any further developments, Sam tried to produce a list of features that could make for terrible story writing.

_\- wedding fics – 'Nobody wants to read your long and rambling fantasies about you becoming Mrs Winchester, BOOOOOORRRRIIIIIINNNNGGGG'_

_NB - wedding fics – everybody wants to read about Cas or Gabriel becoming Mr Winchester 'ZOMG Dean as bridesmaid LOL!'_

_\- excruciatingly detailed descriptions of what character is wearing – "Your OC is a completely obvious self-insertion, and if you'd wear an outfit like that in public you're clearly some sort of slut and nobody wants to read about you'_

_NB - excruciatingly detailed descriptions of what Sam/Dean is wearing – everybody loves them 'OMG he'd look so HOT in that make his pants tighter hahahahaha'_

_\- technically bad English expression – no punctuation – tense agreement – etc. 'For the love of Cas, please stop writing. Or at least, please stop publishing.'_

_\- technically good English expression – extensive vocabulary – discursive writing 'Huuuuuh what the hell those words arent even real IDK your making it up its crap get off are site TL;DR'_

_\- inadequately slashy slash – 'I want DETAILS here, needs a lot more lemon juice'_

_\- descriptively slashy slash – 'Gross, just gross, that's completely disgusting and you should be thrown off this site for writing this sort of trash.'_

_\- Sister fic – 'How the hell is she supposed to be one month old, when Sam is only six months old? This is completely unbelievable. 'What is this, was Mary a squirrel, or is there stork involvement in your verse?'_

_NB sister fic – hahahahaha, she's a nurse, I don't believe it's taken me three chapters to get it – she's a nurse, named Phillipa – Sister Fic! I'm an idiot…'_

_\- plot – 'This is a story in search of a plot. Seek one, find one, get one, or don't waste our time again.'_

_NB PWP (without) 'I don't care about the background of this case. Gimme more PWP!'_

_NB NB PWP (with) 'If all they're doing is screwing, it's not much of a story. Ho hum.'_

It was writer's block as he'd never experienced it.

He was still doggedly reading and noting when his stomach rumbled; he paused to look at his watch, and noticed just how much time had gone by. Great, Dean was late with dinner – his 'bestie' had probably dropped into a bar with a pool table on the way back and lost track of time.

He let out a small sad noise – incidentally, at the exact same time as RJ, who had finally satisfied himself with one final forlorn prod that Auntie Samantha was never going to grow the sort of assets he had become most fond of – when his cell chirped. Thankful for something to do besides try to write a lousy fanfic, he answered it.

"Samantha Plant? Ma'am, my name is Irene Baker, I'm a police officer, I'm with your friend Deanna Page – we're just escorting her to the emergency room."

* * *

Oh no! What's happened? Has Deanna sprained a boob? Rolled an ankle in those heels? Been arrested for a lewd act in public? Feed Alfie-Con reviews to find out!


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

'Samantha' set some sort of world record for 'bundling small child and two dogs into the car and finding your way to the ER', heart hammering, with all sorts of disastrous scenarios running through 'her' head. The police officer had said that 'Deanna' had been involved in some sort of incident, but didn't want to discuss it over the phone, and a number of worst cases scrolling past 'her' imagination.

Dee had been hit by a car.

Dee had been hit by a meteorite.

Dee had fallen off those damned heels, and broken her neck.

Dee had slipped whilst touching up her lipstick, and choked on it.

Dee's chest had reached critical mass, formed a highly localised nano-sized black hole, and she'd imploded in a puff of foundation.

She didn't even bother to put the seat back, she just drove to the ER at ten over the limit, skidded to a halt in the lot, grabbed RJ and ran inside.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Officer Irene Baker had been in the job for nearly twenty years, and, like anybody who lasted that long in police work, was pretty much professionally unflappable in a crisis. It went with the territory – you learned not to flap, or you got out of the job. The police force was no place for somebody who flapped. Flapping was not helpful. Especially when the crisis you'd been called to would quite possibly have at least one person flapping. And whoever was flapping might be flapping so hard that it was a wonder they didn't get airborne.

For example, the woman she spoke to on the phone sounded like she was trying very hard not to flap, but not succeeding entirely. Noises in the background informed her that there was a small child that had to be wrangled, so she filed that bit of intel away.

However, just because she herself didn't flap, that didn't mean that Irene was completely unsympathetic to those who did flap. Especially if they'd been through a traumatic experience.

The woman they'd brought to the ER was definitely flapping. Like an albatross trying to get off the ground after a particularly long lunch of particularly delicious lobster, possibly with a cream sauce, and a bottle and a half of a nice crisp white to wash it down.

People responded differently when awful things happened to them or around them, and you never knew what had gone before in their lives, so she tried not to judge. One person's minor irritation could be another person's major trauma. But in her considerably informed opinion, this woman could flap competitively. She could flap professionally. She could flap for her country at Olympic standard…

She stepped back into the small room – she'd had to leave to get away from the noise to make the call – and the male officer who'd stayed battled valiantly not to roll his eyes. She took pity on him, and suggested that he wait outside for Ms Samantha Plant to arrive. He had kids of his own, and would happily hold the small child, keeping it away from the distressing scene. He shot her a grateful look, and left. No, scratch that, he shot her a grateful look, and fled.

"Ma'am?" she began with an encouraging smile, "Deanna? It's me, Irene, again. I've called your friend, Samantha, and she's on her way right now." She picked up the box of tissues, and held them out.

With a shaking hand, Deanna Page took a handful, and honked into them before bursting into fresh gales of sobs, interrupted only by a shriek.

"Sorry," apologised the young intern who was tending to her other hand. "This is bound to sting, I'm afraid, but we'll have you fixed up in no time…"

"Where's Sam?" wailed Deanna, mascara running down her face, hair in magnificently tousled disarray and chest heaving, "Where's Sam, I want Sa-a-a-a-a-a-a-m…"

"She's on her way," Irene reassured her, "Officer Callam will bring her straight in, as soon as she gets here…"

"OW!" howled the woman, yanking her hand away from the intern, and pausing to glare at him, then shrieking again at the sight of a pink-tinged piece of swab, then the howl turned into a shriek. "OH MY GOD IT'S BLOOD!"

"Just don't look at it, Deanna," Irene said firmly, "Look over here, look over here at me, and talk to me."

"There was so much blood," Deanna wailed, fulsome bottom lip quivering, "There was blood, there was blood, there was blood everywhe-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-e-re…"

Irene proffered the tissues.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Officer Callam spotted the worried-looking woman carrying a toddler, and went to meet her, giving her some details as they headed back to the small treatment room. Her friend Deanna had been assaulted at a bar. Yes, physically, she wasn't badly hurt, but she was very distressed, clearly traumatised, and what she really needed was a friend to hold her hand.

After a brief introduction, Samantha handed the little boy, RJ, to him, and headed in to see her friend. Officer Callam didn't mind watching children; his workmates often ribbed him about it, but he considered it a perk of the job. Especially when they were as engaging as this one. RJ was an adorable little guy with a cheeky smile, who seemed happy to be minded by a police officer. Unlike so many kids he'd encountered under such circumstances, he was a joy to deal with: he poked the officer thoughtfully in the chest, looked up and said "Meh", then was content to babble happily and amuse himself waving his knit toy – which was possibly a raccoon, or maybe a skunk, or even a honey badger – at passers-by.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The moment Samantha stepped into the room, Deanna launched herself at her friend with a fresh wail. Samantha caught her in a ferocious hug.

"I gotcha," she murmured over the noise of her friend's distress, "It's okay, Dee, I gotcha."

Once Dee had finished having a good sob all over her bestie, she managed to calm down somewhat, which let the intern finish the dressing on her hand, and gave them an opportunity to talk.

"Dee, what happened?" pressed Sam.

"You don't have to talk about it right away if you don't want to," Irene reassured her.

"No, no, it's okay," Dee actually managed a small, brave little smile, "I want to tell Sam what happened." She took a deep, shuddering breath, bosom undulating. "I went out for my pedi, and I got my nails done, too, because they weren't very busy, and they had a special on, and I thought, hey, why not, and I haven't had a chance to look after my nails recently, you know how busy I've been, and they had some new shellac colours in, and there was one that I thought would match my jacket perfectly and I couldn't resist it…"

"Perhaps you could, uh, move it along a bit?" Sam prompted.

Dee nodded. "So, I was walkin' back, and I went right past a bar, and I thought, I know, I'll just go play a couple of games of pool, help with the finances a bit," she gave Irene a small smile, "I'm a real good player, so, I went in, and I had a drink, and I found a game, and, and, and…" her face crinkled.

"Just, take your time, er, sis," Sam said.

"So, I found a game, and I won," Dee continued, "And then I had another drink, and then I had another game, and I won that one, too, and there was this guy, and he wanted a game, and he wanted to play for… play for…" she shuddered. "He didn't want to play for money…"

'It's okay, Dee, you're safe now," Samantha reassured her friend, "So, what happened?"

"Well, I told him I wasn't that sort of girl," Dee's face became disdainful, and she tossed her hair over one shoulder, "I'd play for money, or nothing. And I beat him. Only he was a sore loser. So, I saw what the time was, and I left the bar, and he followed me, and, and, he, he…" she started to sob again, "He… as I walked past this alley, he grabbed me!"

Samantha's face hardened. "I hope you get the bastard," she growled in a surprisingly frightening fashion, "Dee, did you give the police a description? Would you recognise him again?"

"She was able to point him out to the attending officers at the scene," Officer Baker assured her.

"Well, I hope you keep the asshole locked up," Samantha growled again.

"He's upstairs right now," Irene informed her. "Under police guard. He was going into surgery right away, because they were worried about the state of his airway. Crushed trachea, a very serious injury."

"Uh, crushed trachea?" echoed Sam.

Irene nodded. "That was the most pressing matter, apparently," she took out a notebook and began to consult it. "Blunt force trauma to the trachea, complicated by the broken nose. Gotta get his airway established, before they can tackle the fractures."

"Fractures?" repeated Sam faintly.

"To his face, his ribs and his arm," Irene frowned at her notes. "Frankly, Ms Plant, it looked like he'd had the shit beaten out of him."

Samantha gawped at Deanna, who just honked into another handful of tissues.

"I don't really remember what happened," she said in a small voice, unshed tears gathering on her long lashes. "All I remember is that he followed me, and grabbed me, and, and, and…"

"He… assaulted you?" said Sam in a quiet tone.

"She has recent bruising on her chest," Irene told Samantha quietly, "Consistent with indecent assault."

"Oh, God, Dee, I'm so sorry…"

"Oh, who cares about that!" snapped Dee, holding up her hand to reveal a bandaged finger, "Be sorry about this!"

Sam stared at the dressing. "Uh, did he have a knife or something?"

"No!" Dee's face broke into fresh sobs, "I broke off a naaaaaaaaaaaaail!"

Sam gave Irene an incredulous look.

"And I'd just had them done! And as if _that _wasn't bad enough," Dee was working herself into hysterics, "The heel of my boot broke off! My boot! My beautiful boot! And that asshole _bled all over me_!"

"Trauma affects people in unexpected ways," Officer Baker informed Samantha, seeing the bemused look on her face, "Your friend has been assaulted, and she'll have to process it, deal with it, her way."

"I'll never get the stains out of that shirt!" squeaked Deanna before dissolving into sobs on Sam's shoulder again. "And it was on specia-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-l!"

Sam made soothing noises, and bent her head to whisper to Deanna:

"You lay it on any thicker, you'll need a trowel."

"Shut up bitch," came the barely audible reply, "And send that cop to get coffee."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

After some coffee, Deanna rallied magnificently for the benefit of her son, and was able to give the police a preliminary statement. She further brightened considerably when a candy-striper brought the heel of her boot back, after a physician had just removed if from her attacker's instep.

Samantha took RJ back – the boy offered Officer Callam a final chance to taste the toy, then waved good-bye – and they headed for the car.

"Ugh," humphed Dean, flopping gracelessly into shotgun and looking down at the scrubs top he'd been given to wear in lieu of his blood-stained clothing. "I hate this colour. It doesn't work on me. It makes me look sallow. Nobody looks good in scrubs. Except for Dr Sexy, obviously."

"And the Academy Award for Most Melodramatic Performance Of Total Histrionics goes to Deanna Page!" Sam said in a forced tone. "Dean, what the fuck happened?"

"Exactly what I told the officer," replied Dean calmly, pulling down the visor and inspecting the ruined make-up. "I beat a bad sport, he followed me, he attacked me, I made him sorry."

"Jesus H. Christ," Sam went on, "When that cop called me, I thought something really bad had happened to you!"

"It did!" Dean insisted, "It did! That nail broke off! It started to bleed and everything! Something did happen to me!"

"No, Dean," Sam scowled, "In fact, you happened to someone. What the hell went on in that alley?"

"We fought, and I won," Dean grinned smugly, still inspecting his face. "Damn. I look like Heath Ledger's Joker." He fished around in the bag of Dee's belongings and from somewhere extracted a pack of make-up removal wipes. "I don't suppose it's worth trying to do it all again, this late, I'm not going out again anyway."

"Dean, you beat a guy nearly to death!" Sam snapped.

"Well, he shouldn't have tried to grab my tits," Dean replied nonchalantly, "Any guy who attacks a woman with sexual assault on his mind deserves to be beaten to death." He brandished a bottle. "I did get this, though, so I call first on the bath tonight. And I got you some salon conditioner too."

"Whatever happened to conserving funds?" snarked Sam.

"It's okay," Dean smiled serenely, "That guy who attacked me? I took his wallet as well as his self-respect."

"Oh, God," Sam groaned, "Were the hysterics really necessary?"

"Well, uh, yeah, duh," Dean rolled his eyes, "I had to give them something to deal with, before anybody started to ask questions about how such a sweet and adorable woman," he fluttered his eyelashes at Sam, "Could inflict that sort of damage. Crap, this mascara really is smudge resistant…"

"I think they're probably startin' to wonder by now," Sam said grimly, "And as soon as they ask him, he'll tell 'em."

"Be a while until he can talk, I'd think," Dean chuckled.

"Then he can write it down!" snapped Sam.

"With a busted arm?" Dean's smugness was as impenetrable as Donald Trump's. "Anyway, no guy like that is gonna admit he was beaten to a pulp by a blonde bimbo babe who also beat him at pool." He paused. "And even if he does, 'Deanna Page' will no longer exist by then."

Sam let out a long sigh. "You are impossible," he muttered, "I thought that you were impossible when you were you, but turns out female you is even more impossible."

"That's just how awesome I am," Dean gave his most winning smile. "Now, I don't know about you, but I'm hungry, so let's get food." HE studied his bandaged finger. "I wonder if I could get, you know, an acrylic tip on this one?"

"We're going straight back to the room," Sam instructed, "Where we will make a start on our fanfic stories."

Dean pulled a face. "I never did like writing essays."

"Well, it's for the job," Sam scowled, "So guess how much I care?"

"About as much as you care about my poor, mutilated, broken nail," Dean sighed sadly. "I've been traumatised here, Sam, you might have a bit of sympathy… oh, hey, pull over! Now!"

"What? What? Where?" yapped Sam, hitting the brakes.

"There!" Dean pointed. "A shoe repair shop! I gotta get the heel put back on my boot!"

Oh, fuck, I hate you."

* * *

Kudos to **cyenthia 30**, who saw it coming a mile away. It couldn't have been Ronnie, partly because in human form she couldn't be assured of winning a knock-down, drag-out fight against Dean (mostly, they're like two cats who pointedly ignore each other - 'I could knock you on your arse but I refuse to dirty my paws on you'), and partly because sooner or later she'd have to answer to Bobby for it.

So, now we get to it, they have to write fanfics. Which means, I have to write their fanfics. Or at least, write about their fanfics. How terribly meta. Does anybody have any ideas? Srsly, any suggestions would be useful at this point, Alfie-Con the plot bunny is being distinctly unhelpful on that topic. Feed him reviews, or poke him with your pointy sticks to inspire him!


	14. Chapter 14

As LeeMarieJack reminds us, when it comes to fanfic, it's become pretty much impossible to come up with something truly novel, because somewhere, somehow, for better or worse, it's Been Done Before. Whatever transformation, whatever pairing, whatever verse you can imagine, somebody else has already written about it somewhere. Sabriel in a shoe shop, with primal scream therapy, pet elephants and roller disco dates? So last decade. Destiel mpreg set in the Crimean War including a threesome with Florence Nightingale? You plagiarist. Crobby house-hunting during the French Revolution with adopted children who grow up to be lesbian amputee Inuit throat-singing virtuosos and breeders of prize-winning racing sloths? Ho-hum. It's like Rule 30-something of fanfiction: if you can imagine it, it's already been written somewhere.

I can only read Leahelisabeth's bad fanfic offering, and seethe with envy. It's just a mark of her writing; in order to lampoon something by doing it intentionally badly, it is necessary to be good at doing it properly. So for utterly hilarious Sam-In-A-Box stories, she should be a shoe-in…

Also, it transpires that my husband agrees with TBO and RJ that every story should have boobs as an essential part of the plot. Because titties. I cannot promise to comply with this, other than to assure everyone that, in the Jimiverse, Dean thinks about them all the time, even if he's not actually talking about them.

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen**

After RJ went to bed, with the two Cockapoos snuggled up to his travel cot, Dean headed for the bathroom and, despite Sam's protests that he was supposed to be writing a fanfiction offering for the meeting, insisted that after a stressful and traumatic afternoon a long relaxing soak was in order.

"I'll write better if I'm in a relaxed state of mind," Dean insisted, bobby gently amongst the mounds of bubbles, "I'll be more receptive to the creative urge."

"It's harder than it looks," Sam called from where he was frowning at his laptop, "You can't just misspell every second word, it'll look overdone, and we don't want to raise any suspicions with whatever is responsible, it's gotta be a story that's just plain, authentically… badly done." He let out a frustrated huff. "Just when I think I've got something that might work as a bad fanfiction, I realise that I've got something that looks like a plot, or the dialogue makes sense, or there's something in there that somebody might like."

"You're over-thinkin' things, as usual," scoffed Dean.

"Well, you're not thinking at all," snapped Sam, miffed that he'd finally found the writing assignment that really stumped him. "Do you even have any ideas?"

"I'll scribble something down," Dean replied dismissively. "Look, all you gotta do is pick something that'll get everybody readin' it offside to start with, then just write it without putting in too much effort. Look at that _Twilight_ stuff, dashed off with not much thought, and it annoyed the shit out of people across the world."

"A lot of girls liked it," Sam countered. "Come to think of it, so did a lot of women. Well, females whose bodies were of adult age, not sure what it said about their brain development."

"And a lot more thought it was complete crap," Dean pointed out. "There's always gonna be a few weirdos who enjoy the stuff everybody else hates. I mean, look at you, you like bean sprouts."

"So, what do you suggest, Ms Meyer?" snarked Sam somewhat trenchantly.

"Pick a pairing that most people will hate," Dean said airily, "Or kill somebody off."

"Deathfics can be pretty popular," Sam pointed out.

"Only because they're soppy," chuckled Dean. "Done properly, a _Supernatural_ deathfic could totally make you Public Enemy Number One."

"Right," grunted Sam, tapping at the keys again, "I look forward to your crapfest masterpiece. Oh, and if I have to kill anybody off, I'm starting with you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The first thing Sam noticed when they arrived at the meeting venue the next morning was that the conference-goers seemed to be almost exclusively women.

The first thing that Dean noticed was the immaculately restored Impala in the lot. He made a small sad noise as he parked his Baby, in her powder blue Volvo disguise, next to it; the sound was reminiscent of the noise that RJ had made when he had finally figured out that Auntie Samantha was not ever going to be in a position to furnish the titi he liked so much.

"Look at her," Dean moaned, "Look at her, she's magnificent, almost as magnificent as my own Baby…"

"Well, a lot of fans take the whole thing very seriously," Sam reminded him, "I'm kind of scared about the idea of cosplay day… _Dean!"_

Dean paused, fingers twitching, like a dog that freezes mid-sniff of the garbage can when it hears its name snapped out in the Bad Dog voice.

"Dean!" Sam hissed, "Don't you dare touch somebody else's car!"

"I'm having withdrawals," Dean sounded pained, "I miss my Baby, I miss her so much…"

"You'll live," Sam grunted.

"I just want to touch her again," Dean's voice caught, "I just want to feel her beautiful bodywork under my hands…"

"Stop it!"

"Just a quick fondle?"

"Dean…"

"No tongues, I promise…"

"No!" Sam shot Dean a Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual). "How would you feel about some total stranger leaving nose prints on your car? You'd go totally mediaeval on their ass!"

"At least they'd die happy," Dean muttered resentfully, opening the door to retrieve RJ, who didn't help by making cheerful "Voom! Voom!" noises when he spotted the other Impala.

The meeting had a different vibe to an academic conference, which pleased Sam, because he had been worried he might have some traumatic flashbacks to some of the symposia he'd attended at college.

"Looks kind of informal," Dean remarked, smiling back at another woman whose toddler waved to RJ and received a sunny grin and a wave of Stanley in return. "There's other women with their kids."

"Well, it's meant to be a fun thing," Sam reminded him, "It's not like anybody has to be here for coursework or anything. They're here to enjoy themselves in the company of like-minded individuals."

"This would be a lot more fun if I could be proper male me," sighed Dean, looking around. "The women outnumber the guys by at least ten to one. And oooooh, hello," he mused under his breath, watching a woman who couldn't wait for the meeting's official cosplay day stroll past in a rather revealing human!Impala outfit, "Look at that deck lid on that, I'd like to get a look at the initials on that back ledge… OW!"

"Titi!" yelled RJ cheerfully, grabbing for one with each hand.

"Serves you right," grunted Sam with a note of satisfaction, "You're not Dean here, you're Dee, and we can't break cover."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean griped, then brightened. "Hey, maybe if I come as myself for cosplay day?"

"Forget it," said Sam abruptly. "The only cosplaying you could do with any sort of conviction would be to find a Hitchhiker's Guide session at a scificon, and go as Eccentrica Gallumbits the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon-6."

"Hey! I've only got two!"

"You got enough for three. Or you could always shove RJ down your shirt, and he can cosplay as Boob #2, just colour in his nose red with some blusher, and away you go."

"Titi!"

"Et tu, RJ. Come on, bitch, let's get signed in."

The volunteers staffing the sign-in and orientation tables were clearly fans of the more enthusiastic variety…

"Okay," murmured 'Dee' as they approached, "The one with the stick on beard and the cap is Bobby, although she needs a bigger cushion up her shirt to be completely convincing…"

"I'll tell him you said that," commented 'Samantha'.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm terrified, the one with the, what is that on her head, a mop? Is she supposed to be you?"

"It's a wig," Samantha pointed out, "Albeit a scruffy one. It's probably well worn. The presence of a tie and a trench coat suggests Cas rather than me."

"And the next one, what's she meant to be?"

"Possibly a vampire, if the plastic teeth are anything to go by."

"Huh, like vampires would turn anybody that fat, they only pick hot chicks, to rope in their victims. It's like those women who put on a gold bikini and expect us to think 'Princess Leia' rather than 'Jabba the Hutt'…"

"Don't be so catty! This is supposed to be a bit of escapism for fun, keep your shallow remarks to yourself."

"Oh, so a fat chick can cosplay a vampire, but a buxom one can't cosplay Dean Winchester, because that's totally consistent with… Oh. My. God. Look at that one."

"What? Where?"

"The last one, on the end there… oh, that's amazing! We're totally signing in over there!"

Dee scuttled to the end of the long tables, and gushed enthusiastically as Samantha presented their details.

"You look great!" she enthused, "You have totally nailed it!"

"Yeah?" The object of her approval blushed slightly. "Uh, thanks. I thought I might've gone a bit over the top, with the drawing on the tatts…"

"No," Dee said firmly, "You got it just right! And the scars are completely convincing! Isn't it amazing, Samantha?"

"Uh, yeah," agreed Sam, "Very convincing."

"If she stepped out of the pages of the book, you're exactly what she'd look like!" declared Dee. "Seriously, you _are_ Ronnie Shepherd!"

'Ronnie' smiled. "That's so kind of you. To be honest, I wasn't completely sure I could pull this off…"

"You did," Dee stated firmly. "If they made a _Supernatural_ movie, you should get the part!"

'Ronnie' laughed, and completed their registration, handing over their name tags and documentation. "I don't suppose you'll be on the cosplay judging panel then?"

"No, but if we can vote, I am totally voting for you," Dee smiled. "That's some really amazing ink work. They're just drawn on?"

"Yep. My sister is a tattoo artist. That one's actually my dog, he's a Border Collie, but she put pointy ears and fangs on him, and turned him into Mako." 'Ronnie' smiled ruefully. "She threatened to wax me first."

"Nah," Dee waved a hand dismissively, "Just tell everyone it's the day before the full moon."

"You two have fun!" grinned the would-be werewolf.

"And you have the gall to call me a bitch," muttered Samantha as they wandered off.

"What?" demanded Dee. "You told me not be catty, so I wasn't. I said positive things. And, for your information, I meant them. That's gotta be the most epically convincing _Supernatural_ cosplay ever."

"Dee, that was a guy!"

"Well, duh."

"A guy who obviously eats cows for breakfast and lifts heavy weights twice a day."

"See my previous comment."

"But not on his days off, when he rents his face out to blacksmiths as an anvil."

"The resemblance is uncanny, isn't it?"

"If he stripped and lay down, people would just assume he was a rug and ignore him!"

"Well, in case you hadn't noticed, but at certain times of the lunar month, Ronnie does get pretty hairy."

"When she shapeshifts to her wolf form, Dean, er, Dee! And even when she does shift, I don't think her chest is that hairy…"

"Now who's making catty remarks about personal appearance?" Dee sniffed disdainfully. "You disappoint me, Samantha."

"Jerk," muttered Sam.

"So, what now?" Dee jiggled RJ, who avidly watched a particularly unlikely 'Lucifer' walk past and let out an approving cry of 'Titi!'.

"We set up our accounts," Samantha replied, heading for a seating area that was populated by women tapping at laptops, chatting earnestly, or doing both. "It's how this thing is arranged, you pick a pen name, and upload your stuff to the temporary server, then you use the password on your name tag, and you can look at other people's writing too. That way, when the different panels choose pieces to read out and comment on, the writer doesn't have to identify themselves if they don't want to. The rules are pretty simple, keep it constructive, don't get abusive, and if you troll or try to start a flame war, the Sys Op will track you down and throw you out."

"So, some chick with coke-bottle glasses who hasn't been outdoors for the last three weeks will kick my ass?" asked Dee, not sounding convinced.

"Possibly," Samantha replied serenely, "And if she doesn't, I will. So keep yourself nice."

They opened up their laptops and, while RJ waved Stanley engagingly at anyone within waving distance, set up accounts and submitted their first pieces.

"So, now we wait," mused Samantha, "Maybe we can read some of the stuff already here."

"Or we could drink coffee," added Dee brightly, spotting the small café, "And possibly eat pie. So, go get us food, bitch."

Sam stood up, smiling sunnily. "Sure," she said, "I'll be right back."

If Dee was wondering about the easy compliance of her bestie with the abrupt order, the reason became clear when she returned.

"Oh, hell, no," growled Dee as Sam put a small cup of frothed milk in front of RJ.

"Faff! Faff!" enthused RJ, poking at it to make the froth wobble.

"What have I told you about givin' him that sissy stuff?" snapped Dee.

"He likes it so much," Samantha just grinned, "And dairy is so good for growing bones. You love your froth, don't you, RJ?"

"Faff!" the boy agreed. He scooped up a handful, tasted it, squealed with delight, then turned around to splat some onto his parent's chest. "Titi faff!"

"Hey, that's a two word sentence," noted Sam assiduously, "Little RJ is growin' up."

"Great," muttered Dee, "No women, no porn, homework, and I'm gonna be double teamed by a couple of little bitches. I almost can't wait for whatever this thing is to come and try to drag me away."

* * *

Why Dean doesn't just put on his jacket and claim he's fem!Dean is beyond me, I'm finding him convincing so far.

feed little Alfie-Con the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Faff on The Hot Drink Of Life!


	15. Chapter 15

A plague upon Real Life. The plot bunnies have clammed up, and I am assailed by the Astonishingly Dense And Indescribably Bland Tofu Of Creative Block; yea and verily am I smoten by the Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip of Mundane Reality left right and centre, the entire Stock Of The Health Food Shop Of Unwelcome Circumstances besets me! Work is insane (who does teleconferencing at FIVE O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING, FFS), and one of my bikes ate his battery. Oh, and our Prime Minister is behaving like a complete dick once more, and the law is very clear, stabbing people just because you think they are idiots will be most dimly viewed by the courts. It's just vexing. I'm terribly vexed. But I did manage to get a chapter out of Alfie-Con. Here it is.

* * *

**Chapter Fifteen**

The first general session was a combination of welcome, mixer, and housekeeping announcements. A member of the convening committee talked through the various workshops and sessions that would be running. There would even be some subject matter experts: a professor of English would be hosting Grammar For People Who Have No Grasp Of Grammar, a psychologist would be speaking at Why We Love Angst, and a producer of erotica marketed at women would be presenting her insights in What Women Want.

"Huh," sniffed Dean disdainfully as they sat scanning more fanfics afterwards, "I could host that, I know more about what women want than most people will ever learn. In fact, I've forgotten more about What Women Want than most people will ever learn."

"Well, you can't manifest as the Living Sex God here," Sam murmured back.

"You're tellin' me," sighed Dean, "Not with Mr Pliers here sabotagin' me."

"Titi!" chittered RJ, patting his parent's chest.

"That wasn't what I meant," Sam rolled his eyes, "What I meant was, you cannot risk breaking cover. Anyway," he flicked through the session notes, "I don't think you'd want to be at the, uh, What Women Want session. I sure as hell don't."

Dean turned a sad expression onto his girlified brother. "I don't know where I went wrong with you," he said in a forlorn voice.

"No, not because of that," Sam shot back a _Bitchface_ #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk), "I think you misunderstand the nature of the, uh, topic." He pointed out the description of that particular workshop. "Says here it's a discussion and exploration of what makes slash fiction so attractive to so many women." He peered at the page. "Says here, 'Whether you're into Wincest, Destiel, Sastiel, Sabriel, or even Crobby, talk to someone in the know about what women want, and take your yaoi from hot to smokin'!' I mean, if you want to go, that's up to you…"

Dean let out a sad little noise. "I don't get it," he moaned, "I really just do not get it."

"Well, maybe you could go along and have your curiosity satisfied," shrugged Sam, "There will be a whole bunch of women talking about why women like it."

Dean let out a horrified squeak. "Are you kidding? They're all perverts!"

"No they're not," Sam rolled his eyes, "Don't be so melodramatic."

"Are you tellin' me that women writin' and readin' about…_ that_ is normal?"

"Well, it's a lot more common than you'd think," Sam sounded worryingly like somebody about to go into lecture mode.

"Whoa, whoa, big fella, stop right there," said Dean firmly, "Wantin' to read about, you know, guys like that, it's just weird."

"Why is it weird?" posed Sam. "You can't call it 'weird' just because you don't share a taste for it."

"Well, I got no taste for rolling naked in peanut butter, then runnin' up and down the street pausing only to hump lamp posts and yelling 'Free The Tomatoes!' at the top of my voice," growled Dean, "And that would be totally weird."

"That wouldn't be weird, that would be some sort of mental illness," Sam noted tartly. "Or possibly a frat boy thing. Look, maybe we're a bit uncomfortable about it, but it's no weirder than men who get turned on watching two women get down and dirty. Of which you are one, I might add."

"Yes it is!" yapped Dean, "That's completely different!"

"How?" asked Sam.

With the arm that wasn't holding on to RJ, Dean waved expansively. "It's, you know," he said uncertainly, "It's totally different."

"How?" repeated Sam. "You, a guy who identifies as straight, find two members of the opposite sex having intimate relations to be a turn-on – how is it different?"

"It's objectifying men," Dean sniffed in high dudgeon, "Reducin' men to objects to be, you know, depicted for women's lust."

"Yeah, I guess," agreed Sam. "And maybe one day, when men stop watching pornography and pole dancing and stop buying girlie magazines, that argument might have a leg to stand on."

"It's not the same thing!" Dean spluttered.

"Why not?" Sam's serenity was maddening; Dean was sure he was doing it on purpose.

"Because, because…" he stuttered, "Because… they're women! And men are very visual creatures," he added authoritatively, "We like to look at women. It's the way our brains are wired."

"Well, who's to say that women's brains aren't wired to read about men?" Sam countered. "Women supposedly being the ones who are supposed to be more engaged with communication through language."

"There's somethin' seriously wrong with you," muttered Dean. "Bein' in that female body is messin' with your rational thought processes. As soon as we're us again, you need to get laid, Sam."

"Maybe I'm just comfortable enough in my own masculine identity not to get too bothered about what other adults want to write about for their own amusement," Sam studied Dean. "Although, I'm not surprised if you're having trouble with your masculine identity right at this very moment."

"Titi!" agreed RJ, going the grope.

"OW!" Dean pushed the offending hands away. "They're weird," he muttered sullenly, "We should let some of 'em get murdered and sent Downstairs as a warning to the others."

Sam laughed outright. "Do you have any idea how much trouble you'd be in if the only criteria for goin' to Hell was for somebody else to think you were doing something weird, when you considered it to be enjoyably kinky?"

"There's a difference between kinky and weird," Dean intoned solemnly, "It's the difference between using a just a feather, or the whole chicken."

"More than half the human race would be headed for Hell! And you'd be at the front of the line. So stop being such a drama queen. Anyway, remember, nobody's getting murdered just for writing slash – they've been murdered for writing crap."

Dean muttered mutinously, but subsided.

"You can go to one of the gen sessions, if you like," suggested Sam. "Or maybe hurt/comfort."

"See? More weird!" declared Dean with a note of triumph. "Those hurt/comfort stories, what the hell's goin' on there? Are they sadists? Seriously, I was readin' this one author, she's got a serious ladyboner for shovin' you into boxes…"

"It's the emotional dynamic, I think," mused Sam, "They like to see us lookin' out for each other, manifesting the brotherly connection. Probably because you're so emotionally constipated."

"You do enough emoting for both of us and then some," Dean grumbled. "Besides, there's nothin' remotely attractive about tryin' to massage life back into your limbs after you've been stuck in some tiny little space. It's difficult, because your legs are real hairy." She peered down at her bestie's legs. "Speakin' of which, we could always take an hour or so to go get you some womanscaping…"

Even recast as a woman, Sam was able to shoot his brother an unmistakeable Sam Winchester Bitchface™, choosing for the occasion _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?). "Will you worry less about defoliating me, and more about this job?"

With a dramatic sigh, Dean scanned the program. "Oooh, hey, 'Dean Loves The Metallicar'!" he enthused, "There's a whole bunch of women like to write about me and my Baby, only somehow she's been turned into a human! Awesome!"

Sam gave his brother a sidelong glance. "Awesome?"

"Totally!" grinned Dean, "Because it's a fact that my car is the coolest and sexiest car in the world, so naturally she'll be the coolest and sexiest woman in the world…"

"We've, uh, met your car, in human form," Sam reminded him. "She's middle-aged, wears a twin set, and likes to embroider your initials in your underwear."

"These women aren't concerned with mundane reality," Dean scoffed.

"Canon," Sam corrected him, "For us, it's reality, for them, it's canon."

"Whatever," Dean waved a hand airily, "I'm goin' to that one. It'll be hot."

"You sure you wanna take RJ to something like that?" asked Sam.

"Why not?" queried Dean, "He's got the vocab happenin' already, and mostly he's interested in tryin' to eat Stanley."

"Titi!" chirped RJ by way of demonstration.

"Well, just remember, we're working a job here," Sam reminded his brother sternly, "So concentrate on that, and don't get too wrapped up in listening to stories about… you know…"

"Look on the bright side," Dean trilled brightly, "If I come in my pants nobody will know…"

"_Dean!"_

"What about you, then?" asked Dean, grinning even harder as Sam shot him a recognisable Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust)

"The other session is 'Drop Dead, Gorgeous: Death By Deathfic'." Sam gave his brother a sour look. "Maybe if I'm lucky, there will be some inspiring stories about how to get rid of you."

"Why nobody ever writes about killin' off Crowley is beyond me," Dean said. "You'd think he had fans, or something. He's the King of Hell, for fuck's sake!"

"Yeah, but they don't know that he's real," Sam reminded him. "Maybe you could let RJ run around for a bit, then he might sleep through the worst of the Dean-car gropefest. In fact," his face brightened, "Why don't I get him something to help?"

Dean frowned. "You aint dosing my kid with antihistamine," he growled.

"Well," Sam grinned, "I was thinking more along the lines of warm milk."

"Hey!" yapped Dean, "Don't you dare give my kid any more of that sissy drink stuff!"

"What do you think, RJ?" asked Sam cheerfully, "You want some milk and froth?"

"Faff!" declared RJ emphatically, "Faff! Faffaffaffaff!"

"The child has spoken," Sam smiled as he headed for the café again.

Dean sighed and glared at his son. "What the hell Grandpa Winchester would say, I don't know," he muttered. "What have you got to say for yourself, young man?"

"Titi!" giggled RJ, going the grope once more.

"Yeah, okay, you're a Winchester after all, I guess."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

It was kind of a pleasant change from the meetings he'd been to in his later years at college, Sam found out, informal, people chatting, reading over coffee, and in a couple of cases apparently collaborating. The chair conducting the deathfic panel called the session to some sort of order.

"Well, as you can see, we like to keep things informal here," she announced, "We're here to have fun, not because we need to attend for class credit…"

"Amen!" called a voice from the back, and the whole room laughed.

"So, what we thought we'd do is pick out a couple of stories that caught the panel's eye, and look at them in more detail," she continued, "What they do right, or, what they do wrong. Remember, this is about enjoying ourselves, talking about what we love – fanfic! - and maybe learning about improving your writing – no author has to identify themselves, and let's keep it to the writing, and keep it constructive, not get personal, because we're all at different levels here, and not everybody is the next Edlund Carver. We want Sam to be the only bitch here today, okay?"

_Jerks,_ thought Sam as the room laughed again.

"Great, so, if we have enough coffee and snacks, let's get started!" She tapped at the screen of her tablet. "Okay, our first reading is from an author called ImpalaDude…"

Sam's ears pricked up and he sighed inwardly as others around him tapped at various devices.

_ImpalaDude? Seriously, Dean, you went with that again?_

Praying that nobody recognised the pen name that Dean had once used to write some truly pornoriffic werewolf fanfic in a _Supernatural_ fan site challenge, he searched out the document to follow with the reading…

**Dean parked the Impala and checked his gun – he was loaded with silver, natch – then checked the silver blades in his boots and his belt. A small predatory grin slid across his face a bit like the way the frosting runs off the side of a chocolate iced doughnut if you leave it sitting on the dash on a sunny day and forget to eat it because you stop for coffee and have pie instead except the frosting runs down rather than across because of gravity and shit. He got out of the car, and stared into the darkness, hearing nothing, which immediately put him on guard because when you're out at night, and you hear nothing, you know that there's not nothing there, there's something, because normally there's all sorts of noises and stuff so yeah he knew that nothing was not there. Something was there. A big, bad, ugly, evil something. He was there to kill it. He was there to kill it, salt it, and burn it, and grind its ashes into the ground and piss on them. Although he might have to come back when the fire had burned down, maybe go to a bar while he waited and see if there were any frisky women around, provided he didn't stink too badly of smoke because chicks can get a bit funny about that.**

**He slammed the door of his Baby, but not hard enough to damage her, of course, especially given the way the door strut on the driver's side had been bent once when it had got caught in a gust of wind when they'd had to drive through a hurricane to a job and his little bitch of a brother never remembered that no matter how often he was reminded, and the noise echoed around the clearing.**

"**You can run but you can't hide" he announced "Time to die bitch."**

**Like the vicious and evil coward she was, Ronnie jumped him from behind…**

* * *

Denizens, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse may recall Dean's previous foray into fan fiction in "Six", in which he wrote some truly appalling smut and asked some truly inappropriate questions. It's a Dean thing. And he got to meet his car in human form, Miss Impala Chevrolet (Kaz to her friends) in 'A Lady Of A Certain Age'. What on Earth can he planned for this foray into fan fiction? At least we can be confident that it won't be Porn Without Plot.

Send reviews, and I'll bunch them together and try to scoop the plot bunny out from behind the fridge where he went to hide as soon as he'd finished dictating this chapter. I just hope he doesn't have a lady friend there, and they start breeding, the ones you lot keep sending are bad enough.


	16. Chapter 16

I ATEN'T DEAD.

Srsly.

It's just been Real Life kicking me in the shins, and scaring the little plot bunnies by pulling faces at them until they cry. But little Alfie-Con is a determined little sod, and whilst peeping out from behind the Kale Of Plot Bunny Inspiration, he managed to impart this via a series of timid squeaks and some surprisingly articulate gestures...

* * *

**Chapter Sixteen**

_Credit where it's due_, 'Samantha' thought – her 'bestie' had managed to come up with a story in which, during a Hunt, Ronnie somehow got a mouthful of human blood and developed a taste for it. As the Hunter likely to succeed, Dean had heroically set out to put her down, and ended up getting killed himself instead.

The explanation of the background was contrived and stilted, the narrative was rambling and given to exactly the annoying sort of tangent musings that Dean was so good at, the punctuation was as casual as the grammar, and the description of the fight was drawn out and lurid, with Dean giving himself a series of snappy one-liners whilst Ronnie was reduced to crude insults, then just grunting and snarling.

It was something of a relief by the time the tragic hero was dead and the villainess had pissed on his corpse, then loaded him into his car and set the whole shebang on fire before finally limping away, possibly to die somewhere cold and lonely – at the very least, Dean had inflicted wounds that would never full heal with his silver weaponry, of course – cackling maniacally and muttering insanely to herself about killing Sam next then moving on to blowing up the Sara Lee production facility then burning down the JD distillery before desecrating the grave of Louis Chevrolet.

"Wow," breathed the woman next to Samantha, "Just… wow."

Samantha grinned. "Yeah, I know what you mean – where do you even start?"

Another woman, who had a small dog snoozing in her tote, fished around in it for a tissue. "That was…"

"Lurid?" suggested Samantha. "Turgid? Overblown?"

"Intense," snoozing-dog-woman finished, blowing her nose. "I mean, that was just so, so… Dean."

_You don't know the half of it,_ thought Sam. "Yeah, I guess he's not exactly the intellectual type…" her voice trailed off as she noticed tears in her neighbour's eyes. "Uh, are you okay?"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

'Dee' sat with RJ on her lap, waving to the other people in the room and generously offering a small girl his own age a taste of Stanley, grinning. Ever since 'she' had discovered the existence of _Supernatural_ fan fiction, she'd had something of a soft spot for stories about Dean encountering his beloved car in human form – wild horses wouldn't get him to admit it, but the AU ones where Baby turned out to be a hot woman around Dean's age, who suddenly showed up scantily clad – or, even better, buck naked – were a guilty pleasure that she kept hidden more assiduously than the most careful embezzling stocks trader covering his tracks. It was probably just as well that her bestie wasn't there, Dee thought, because Samantha would probably not cope if the first reading was as hot as the panel leader intimated it would be.

Rather than try to read along, she settled back to listen to the story. It was immediately shaping up to be a good one – Baby was caught in occult cross-fire when a Hunt chasing down a witch didn't go quite according to plan. One minute, his car was parked in the lot, a sculpture in steel and chrome glory, and the next…

**Dean blinked, and shook his head to clear his vision. Nope, his car was definitely not there. **

**But the parking space was not empty.**

**Gone was nearly two tons of Detroit steel, and in its place there knelt a human figure, alone, naked, and shivering in the cold. A finely chiselled face framed by dark tousled hair turned, bewildered, to look up at him with frightened yet trusting eyes that bored into his soul, and a timid voice stuttered,**

"**D… Dean?"**

**Smiling reassuringly, he took off his jacket and draped it around the shuddering shoulders. "Yeah, it's me. Don't be frightened, it's okay, I promise, everything will be okay"…**

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Samantha was impressed –she couldn't figure out how her bestie had so perfectly hit the mark for a bad fan fiction.

She also couldn't figure out why the others in the room apparently loved it.

"It's so Dean," repeated snoozing-dog-woman, "That's just so like him, heading off to save the world, one fugly at a time."

"Going down swinging," agreed another.

"Uh, well, yeah, maybe," Samantha conceded reluctantly, "But it's the English expression I'm looking at here – it could do with some editing, I mean, it's just rambling in places…"

"That's what makes it so authentic!" insisted yet another woman, "It's like you get to read about it, from the perspective of being in Dean's head, like he was the one telling the story!"

_Now __that's__ a scary idea,_ thought Samantha. "Yeah, sure, but, uh, well, for instance, the description of Ronnie goin' bad, it's rambling, it's chaotic, it's completely out of left field…"

"Exactly!" declared a panel member, "It's the nature of Hunting. Things can go wrong, really badly, really quickly, completely unexpected. It's the story of the Winchesters' lives."

"That's the tragedy of it," sighed a male voice – Samantha turned to see cosplay 'Ronnie' from the morning's registration. "Ronnie's fought so hard to defeat the monster, because she knows that if she was bad, she'd be really, really good at being bad, and she fears that she'd come to enjoy it."

"And that's what's happened here," someone else said, "This isn't just a story about Dean losing a fight, and dying. It's a story about Ronnie losing her fight and dying first – the Ronnie that Dean knows, Ronnie the Hunter, is dead, gone."

"Okaaay," said Samantha, in a tone reminiscent of an atheist who was headed for a seminar on the punctuated equilibrium model of evolution but suspects she's got the wrong room and instead has walked into a lecture entitled 'Absolute Proof Of Intelligent Design And The Final Location Of Noah's Ark!' "I'm just saying that this story might have a bit of a case of the JK Rowlings, you know, it could've done with the once-over from an assertive editor…"

"It's long and drawn out because that's how it feels for Dean," mused somebody, "This is something he really doesn't want to do, but he has to."

Samantha blinked. "But he and Ronnie can't stand each other!"

The eye-rolling around the room was practically audible. "That's what they say," chortled cosplay-Ronnie, "But really, they're so alike, it's just that they strike sparks off each other. If one of 'em was really in trouble, the other would drop everything to go help. Remember when that Black Dog Hunt went south, and Sam got turned into a werewolf to save his life, then later on, Ronnie did the same for Dean, then she just about mother-henned him to death afterwards?"

"Wild horses won't get them to admit it," a girl announced with a grin, "But Ronnie's the closest thing to a best friend that Dean has, and vice versa. He doesn't have to _explain_ stuff to her – the impossible choices that Hunting sometimes throws up, the whole older sibling guilt complex, she knows, she's lived it too."

"He's always going to see Sam as his baby brother," cosplay-Ronnie went on, "But she's his peer, and deep down he knows that he can rely on her in a way that he'll never be happy relying on Sam." A mutter of agreement went around the room. "That's what makes this story so tragic, so… epic."

"Best friends?" gawped Sam. "Tragic? _Epic_?"

"Totally," sighed yet another girl. "This is some amazing writing. I hope this ImpalaDude writes some more stuff!"

"The English expression could use some work," the panel convenor agreed, "But what we have here is clearly a story with a great appeal, working on a lot of levels…"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam was scowling at the laptop by the time his brother and RJ emerged from their session.

"Here," Dean plopped a dozing RJ into Sam's lap, "Hold this, I need coffee."

"Get me another one too," snapped Sam.

Dean cocked an eyebrow. "Don't take that tone with me, bitch. What's got your panties in a bunch?"

"It's not my panties," Sam complained, wriggling a bit, "It's this damned bra – fuck, how do women live like this?"

Dean went for coffee and an immodest number of doughnuts, and came back scowling just like his brother. "Don't you bitch to me about bras," he muttered, dropping into a seat and stuffing a doughnut into his face. "You aint got underwires, you small-chested freak."

"Sucks to be you then, Jordan," Sam gave Dean a thin smile, "And why are you sitting there with a scowl like thunder, stuffing doughnuts into your face like a girl who's just broken up with her boyfriend?"

"Shut up," griped Dean, taking another bite. "I need this to recover."

"Recover?" Sam looked puzzled. "Recover from what?"

"From bein' traumatised," Dean answered, "I tell ya, I'm this close to findin' the fugly here, and askin' if I can join in."

"You seemed like you were kind of looking forward to your session," Sam said, a note of accusation in his voice. "Stories about your Baby turning into a human, and presumably screwing your brains out."

"Oh, yeah, she did that," snorted Dean disdainfully. "First, it was a Hunt for a witch goin' tits up, and she got turned into a statuesque brunette with soulful eyes and a devotion to me that bordered on worship."

"Oh God, I'm glad I didn't hear that one," moaned Sam.

"Well, I wish I hadn't," grumped Dean.

"What's the matter?" asked Sam. "Graphic depictions of sex not graphic enough for the Living Sex God?"

"Ohhhh, they were plenty graphic," groaned Dean. "The thing is, we had to come up with a name for Baby in human form – you can't just go around callin' an adult 'Baby', that's weird. And you picked a totally uncool name."

"What?" pressed Sam. "Muriel? Mavis? Esmerelda?"

"Tristan," Dean scowled again. Sam's eyes bugged, then he laughed. "Don't laugh, it aint funny! My Baby is female! And you sure as hell wouldn't be laughin' if you'd heard the one after that!"

"Oh, I might," chuckled Sam, "If it got you as outraged as this."

"You'd be laughin' out the other side of your face," humphed Dean, "Remember when Gabriel turned you into my car? The Sampala, the fangirls called it."

Sam's smile disappeared. "Now that, that was not funny."

"Ha! You don't know just how not funny," Dean growled. "The next one, you got stuck as my car, and you started to… to…"

"What?" asked Sam.

Dean's face paled. "You started to enjoy it," he whispered in a tortured voice.

Sam looked blank. "How the hell could anybody enjoy bein' a car?" he demanded.

"Well, in this woman's mind, you did," Dean managed in a strangled voice. "Every time I went to get somethin'… you know, out of the trunk… remember how I said we got the holy oil when I, uh, pulled it out of your ass?..."

"Aaaaaaaargh!" yelped Sam.

"And whenever I put a hand on the gear shift…"

"Aaaaaaaargh!"

"Or crawled underneath you for basic maintenance…"

"Aaaaaaaargh!"

"And then you started leavin' these… puddles…"

"Okay, I get it!" yipped Sam.

"I really wish I'd gone with you after all," Dean almost wailed, shoving another doughnut into his mouth.

"Uh, I don't think you do," Sam replied, giving his brother a scowl, "They read your story. The one about you goin' after Ronnie, and her killing you instead."

Dean looked up. "Yeah? Well, that's good, isn't it? We want to get this fugly's attention, don't we?"

"We want to get the fugly's attention, yeah," Sam agreed, "But for some reason, they loved it!"

Dean paused, and sat up a bit. "What? My story?"

"I mean, it's crap!" Sam went on, "It's, it's, it's like just listening to you ramble on about whatever comes into your head – just add in your love-to-loathe relationship with Ronnie, add some insults, stir briskly and serve. But these women – and one guy who's cosplaying as a woman who looks like she's perpetually cosplaying as a man, and doesn't that just do my head in – they loved it!"

A small smile bloomed on Dean's face. "They… they did?"

"Check for yourself," muttered Sam, as Dean opened and started the other laptop.

His eyes widened as he read some comments. "They… they like it," he said uncertainly. "They like my story."

"They don't just like it, they loved it," Sam huffed. "Though God knows why."

Dean looked up with a smile. "I… I have fans!"

"So does Justin Bieber," Sam sniffed disdainfully, "That doesn't mean that what you're doing is actually any good." He took out the small compact and opened it. "Mirror mirror, flat and clear, who's the crappest writer here?"

_If you mean out of you two,  
Dean writes much much worse than you._

"See?" Sam smirked, "Don't get too cocky, your writing is…"

_But being angsty, dark and gory?  
Dean can tell a better story._

"Hey!" Sam yapped at the mirror, "You're only supposed to answer exactly what you're asked!"

_Trying to give you all the facts,_ pronounced the mirror, it's tone sounding a bit sniffy, _To help you track down these attacks._

"We appreciate any intel you can give us, mirror," said Dean sincerely.

_But Sam is right. He knows. You should:  
'Popular' does not mean 'good'._

"Who asked you?" Dean griped in outrage. "Clearly, some of these people think it is!"

Sam thought he might have heard a small snigger before he shut the mirror.

"You're not here to get fans," Sam reminded him. "We're here to attract the attention of the fugly! So, you can just write something else. Something else that people won't like. Something that they'll turn on, and denounce as garbage, and decide that you're a jerk."

"Like what?" asked Dean.

"I don't know!" Sam shot back. "Just do the exact opposite of what you did in that deathfic!"

"Uh, okay," mused Dean thoughtfully, biting into another doughnut. "I'll see what I can do. We should head back to the room so RJ can have his nap, anyway." He hurriedly ate his last doughnut as they packed up and readied to leave.

On the way out, Sam caught a muttered conversation – Dean didn't notice, because he was in an earnest conversation with a sleepy RJ about how many doughnuts a honey badger might eat in a single sitting, but it was pretty clearly about 'Deanna'.

"Oh – my – GOD. Did you see how many doughnuts she ate? How the hell is she not the size of a house?"

"And she's had a kid – don't talk to me about 'post-baby body', I know I'll never have abs or boobs again."

"She's clearly blessed with really good genes – I bet she has no idea how lucky she is."

"Cow."

On the bright side, Sam mused as philosophically as RJ having an adult decline to have a chew on Stanley, 'Dee' might turn out to be more successful at Make The Other Women Present Dislike You than he'd estimated.

* * *

Oh dear, Dean as the fanfic equivalent of Stephanie Meyer. How frightfully discombobulating.

Cas knows what sessions they'll attend next. Any suggestions? (Keep them T-rated, you depraved beldames...)

Send reviews, because Reviews Are The Delicious Doughnuts Of Inspiration At The Fanfic Workshop Of Life!


	17. Chapter 17

Le bronchitis. AGAIN. Le sigh. The sooner I figure out how to write Jimiverse stories for a living, the better...

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen**

_It was a dark and stormy night._

Sam stared at the single line on the screen, and sought inspiration of the Bulwer-Lytton kind.

_It was a dark and stormy night, terrifying and scary._

He was no stranger to being set writing assignments: essays, critiques, analyses, and fiction, he'd spent his education years writing them to requirement.

_It was a dark and stormy night, like totally terrifying and scary._

The problem was, he'd spent all that time trying his very best to write well. Before he'd even started, he'd had a natural talent for correct and expressive use of American English, and had honed the skill – he'd been on track to become a lawyer, for fuck's sake, in which case it wasn't just necessary to be able to use English well, you had to be able to wield it by turns with the accuracy of a laser scalpel or the force of a sledgehammer, when you weren't bending it over the nearest lawsuit and making it squeal like a pig. Hell, in his final year of college, he'd won an award for the most articulate, most creative and most entertaining filibuster in his class.

_It was a dark and stormy night, like totally terrifying and scary, with bats flying around._

Sam Winchester had been required to do some things for the Hunt that had battered his brain, beaten his body and broken his heart, confronted his very sense of self and his understanding of the world around him and made him question everything he'd ever believed, every conviction he'd ever held, every emotion he'd ever felt. But he was a Winchester, and with his brother at his side, they always found a way, somehow, somewhere, though it was likely to kill them both, they found a way.

_It was a dark and stormy night, like totally terrifying and scary, with bats flying around and stuff._

But he feared that he had, finally, run up against a challenge that would defeat him.

He tried to recall the advice that he had heard a number of teachers give to classes when a chorus of groans arose over a writing assignment. "If you have to, start by writing crap," more than one professor had said frankly, "Just start writing, stream of consciousness stuff, ideas, words, whatever comes to mind. Just get something down on the page. It doesn't matter if you start with crap. You'd be amazed at how many journal articles start as crap. You start with crap, then you can edit it, you can rewrite it, you can polish it, you can improve it – you can't do any of that with a blank page. So if you're having trouble working out what to write, or just getting started, try writing crap."

The trouble was, Sam Winchester had never written crap: he would consider the matter, marshal his ideas about the topic or the assignment, he would do research, make notes, possibly scribble down an outline, assemble his thoughts, and then write. The editing of swirling, incoherent crap to logical or lyrical language went on largely automatically, inside his head, before he picked up a pen or opened the word processor. No matter how many teachers and professors had told him that producing drafts and iterations were a perfectly acceptable and constructive process for writing, he couldn't bear the thought of letting anything out of his head until it was, in his opinion, fit for public consumption.

_It was a dark and stormy night, like totally terrifying and scary, with bats flying around and stuff, the sort of night where ordinary people think that really spooky things might happen not realising that really spooky things happen all the time and they don't just wait for a dark and stormy night to be like really spooky and like kill people._

Sam Winchester was trying to write a bad fan fiction, and it was shredding his very being from the inside.

He paused and sat back, tweaking at his bra in annoyance, to consider the elements of bad fanfics, then looked up in irritation at where Dean was typing furiously, fastidiously lacquered nails clicking on the keyboard of the other laptop.

"Inspiration has struck, huh?" he noted wryly.

"I'm just doin' what you said," Dean replied, "I'm just writin' the opposite of what I did before…" the computer made a brief tinny sound meant to represent a cheer from a crowd at a sports even, and he paused in his typing."

"What the hell was that?" asked Sam.

"Just an alert," Dean replied, "I got another review."

"You're not supposed to be getting reviews!" snapped Sam.

"Well, tell ImpalaDude's readers that," sniffed Dean. "I can't help it if these people like what I wrote."

"Just don't do it again," humphed Sam.

Dean looked up, and arched perfectly shaped eyebrows. "Not drowning in inspiration there, Sammy?"

"It's… it's just… look, it's just really hard for me, okay?" Sam tried to keep the whining tone out of his voice. "I'm trying to write crap, and it goes against the grain."

"Pride is one of the Seven Deadlies, Sam," cautioned Dean.

"You're the one who's always saying that false modesty sucks," Sam shot back. "Think of it this way: if we were on a job, and we were Hunting some fugly that was only attracted to guys who were lousy in bed, and you had to go out and pick up women and disappoint them between the sheets, how would you feel about that?"

"It just wouldn't happen," Dean waved a slender hand dismissively, "I'd follow some other guy."

"Well, what if you couldn't?" pressed Sam.

Dean gave him an understanding smile. "Sammy, there will always be a plentiful supply of guys ready able and willing to disappoint women between the sheets."

"Yeah, but if it was absolutely necessary for you to lure it out," Sam went on, "If it was too dangerous to let somebody else do it and you personally had to track this bitch down and then leaver her unfulfilled and homicidally angry…"

"It wouldn't happen," said Dean firmly, "The Living Sex God is incapable of anything except a masterly performance."

"But what if you had to?" insisted Sam.

For a moment, Dean looked lost for words. "I really don't think I could do that at all convincingly," he eventually pronounced, with a small shudder. "God, what a totally hideous thought."

"Well, this whole writing a bad story? For me, it's just like that." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "And it is too dangerous to use somebody else as bait." He stared at the depressingly unfilled document.

"You did research though," Dean pointed out, "Can't you just, you know, use what you found?"

"It's not that simple," sighed Sam, opening the list he'd constructed. "A bad story may be bad because of one or more elements – if I don't get the balance right, it'll end up not bad enough to be considered bad, but if I overdo it, it'll look completely contrived, deliberately bad." He peered at his list. "For a start, English expression that's florid, cringe-inducing or just carelessly bad gets you halfway there. Then, you need a complete lack of any sort of plotline, just a wandering narrative for you to indulge your own verbosity, and possibly fantasies."

"Fantasies, huh?" grinned Dean, "Careful you don't end up in one o' them slash workshops."

"No, not like that," Sam was grasping for a way to explain, "Genre has nothing to do with it. Hell, I even found a Bobby and Crowley story that was pretty well-written."

Dean's face blanched. "You mean, as in, you know, Bobby, and, and, Crowley, and, and…"

"Actually, it wasn't as bad as you think," Sam grinned ruefully. "It was a description of a man-date to Rome, with a quick trip back in time to check out the ancient city and watch Caesar being assassinated, which finished with them drinking Scotch at Bobby's place and complaining to each other about the idiots in their lives. As slash fan fantasies go, it was pretty damned tame." He sighed, and stared at the screen once more.

_It was a dark and stormy night, like totally terrifying and scary, with bats flying around and stuff. I could just tell that it was the sort of night where weird stuff would happen because I've been like into that stuff since forever and I'm a huge fan of Supernatural._

"I'm starting to think that The Haunted Tea-Cosy Of Polecat Bottoms was easier than this," he complained, tweaking a bra strap once more. "At least there wasn't foundation garmentry making things more uncomfortable than necessary."

"Well, you could always knit a tea cosy," shrugged Dean, tapping away at his own keyboard, "Or at least make a start on the teddy tits you're supposed to be knittin' for RJ."

"Dean, I am NOT knitting your kid a pair of toy boobs!"

"Wow, this whole female thing is gettin' to you - you feelin' hormonal? Want me to go get you some Midol?"

"Hormonal, no, but homicidal, possibly..."

"Huh, some aunt you turned out to be, the boobless wonder, in so many ways."

"Look, you're so keen on it, I'll teach you how to knit, and you can make him a pair of damned stuffed tits!"

"Don't be ridiculous," sniffed Dean disdainfully, "What if I chip my nails or something?"

"Oh, God, why me?" Sam practically wailed unto an uncaring universe.

He struggled on with his fanfic, making occasional little noises of distress until RJ woke up from his nap and began to echo them.

"Look what you've done," said Dean accusingly, picking up his son, "Your grizzling has upset RJ."

"Titi," humphed RJ, grabbing for the objects he clearly believed would make him feel better.

"Hey, how about we go out for a walk and leave Auntie Samantha to her writer's block?" suggested Dean brightly. RJ immediately smiled, and clapped his hands. "I'd say that's a yes."

"You're supposed to be workin' on your next fanfic!" protested Sam.

"It's done," Dean replied smugly, "And I need to get out. Sittin' in front of a computer inside, typin' away, it aint natural."

Sam growled an instruction to bring back coffee as his infuriatingly grinning brother left. He took a small satisfaction in the yelp elicited when RJ made a particularly enthusiastic grab for 'Dee's' most prominent assets.

"I'll do better without that jerk around anyway," he muttered to the dogs. "For fuck's sake, how hard can it be?"

His eye fell on the magic mirror compact, and with a grim determination, he opened it.

"Mirror mirror, in my mitt, is my writing really shit?"

_There isn't much there yet to judge,  
But so far, it's appalling sludge._

"Okay," Sam told hiself, closing the mirror, "Come on, Winchester, get your act together. If you have to, just write crap…" He took a deep breath, and turned back to the laptop.

_It was a dark and stormy night, like totally terrifying and scary, with bats flying around and stuff. I could just tell that it was the sort of night where weird stuff would happen because I've been like into that stuff since forever and I'm a huge fan of Supernatural. So I called my friend Simone and told her to come over. "You have to come over to my place" I said "Oh okay why" she said "Because somethings going to happen tonite" "What sort of somethig" she wanted to know. "Im not sure, but I can feel it, Its going to happen tonight" "Oh hey is this like that time you kind of like knew what was going to happen to you're math teacher like the day before it happened" Kind of" I said "I think you need come over for this._

_So she did. As soon as she got to my place (my parents werent home) I opened the door and the TV turned itself on! "What the hell?" said Simone "Did you do that?" No I swear" I said "It just did that" so we went over to the TV and lo and behold it started playing Supernatural! And Dean turned to the screen and said "Oh shit" and then there was this lightenig strike and it hit my house and there was like a fireball and we got sucked right into the TV…_

* * *

Poor Sam - he's going to be completely traumatized by this in a way no other Hunter could be. Although some of you may be familiar with the discombobulation of opening a link, and finding something of a similar calibre lying in wait.

Actually, bats flying around isn't scary for me - for a number of years now there's been a single lonely little bat flying around over my place, all by himself - but now he has a friend! Yep, there's two of 'em, flying around together. I even saw 'em pause briefly in a tree across the road. It's kind of cute to think that they might have found each other and paired up.

Unless they start a colony and start spreading noise, guano and exotic viruses, that won't be cute and I'll get out the Nerf gun to encourage them to move on.

Feed Alfie-Con the recalcitrant plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Entertainly Excruciatingly Bad FanFics On The Site Of Life! Then go and sanitise your keyboard so you don't catch anything from me.


	18. A Musical Interlude

The plot bunnies haven't really been biting much recently, and worse than that, according to some Denizens, is that the two fics I have on the go at the moment really don't have much scope for G.W.N. However, out of nowhere (well, out of the freezer I think it was, which is pertinent, I suppose) this tuneful little bunny hopped, with an idea as to how we might fill in a gap, and provide some gratuitous exposure. What it suggested was another musical interlude from that production that has yet to see the light of day…

* * *

_**A Musical Interlude: a Song from...**_

**JIMIVERSE SUPERNATURAL - THE MUSICAL!**

**Ronnie:** I'm not sure I've got the range for this – I've always thought I was more of a contralto.

**Lampito:** Come on, you could've been musical like your sisters, you just chose not to work at it.

**Ronnie:** Uh, what are they meant to be?

_She gestures at Sam, Dean, Castiel and Gabriel, who are wearing brief and spangly outfits - there is quite a lot of sequin involvement compared to actual fabric._

**Lampito**: They're snowflakes!

**Ronnie:** They look like a bunch of strippers auditioning for the adult version of a Narnia book.

**Lampito: **It's completely relevant to the song. Well, to the original tune I ripped off, anyway.

**Dean:** No it aint. Who the hell wears spangly shorts?

**Castiel:** I believe the costumes are supposed to evoke the impression of ice crystals.

**Sam:** It's certainly cold enough to evoke ice crystals. I got a draft!

**Gabriel:** Look, as much as I'm in favour of playing dress-ups, I gotta say, sequins and glittery body paint don't actually give much coverage…

**Lampito:** Shut up. Now, you will be happy little snowflakes dancing around…

**Dean:** Why do I have to be a damned snowflake? Ow! I got sequin rash here!

**Lampito:** Look, it's snowflakes, or you dress up as furry!strippers. _She waves the pointy stick menacingly._

**Sam:** Is that supposed to be a snowman?

**Snowman (in a muffled voice):** Bollocks to you, Moose.

_Orchestral music begins; Lampito firmly ushers the players on stage with meaningful waves of the pointy stick._

**Lampito:** Right, get out there, you sing, and you lot dance around suggestively, looking swirlingly attractive.

**Snowman:** It's going to be a bit difficult to dance when I can't see where I'm going, darling.

**Ronnie:** Do I get a costume?

**Lampito:** Make it up as you go along. Now, get going.

_Music becomes louder, and a piano swells into an obvious introduction. The tune bears a passing resemblance to a song in another story about a young girl who had power she didn't understand thrust upon her unwillingly._

_Ronnie eyes the waggling of the pointy stick warily, and begins to sing._

The full moon's bright in the sky tonight  
As I hide myself somehow,  
The curse that is the werewolf,  
And it's with me always now,

The wolf if raging, but I have to keep it in,  
I'll grab the leash, and I will win.

And they will know, and they will see  
Be the Hunter I know I can be,  
I won't despair, despite the hair  
That's everywhere!

_Fur pops out on Ronnie's arms, the stripper!snowflakes dance unenthusiastically, bouncing of the snowman._

Let it grow, let it grow,  
So magnificent my pelt,  
Let it grow, let it grow,  
It's the strongest I have felt,

I don't care  
What my Dad will say,  
Let the wolf howl on –  
Silver never suited me anyway.

**Snowman:** OW! Was that you, Squirrel?

**Dean (trying to hide behind the Snowman):** Shut up, I got no coverage here!

**Sam:** These shorts are too short to qualify as shorts!

**Castiel:** I believe the front row may have supersoakers.

**Gabriel:** Oh, great, do you know how difficult it is to get chocolate sauce out of lamé?

**Lampito (from offstage, waggling pointy stick):** Come on, less hiding, more suggestive swirling!

_Ronnie continues singing, as the scantily clad snowflakes gyrate reluctantly._

It's crazy, but some practice  
Has honed this shapeshift glitch,  
When the monster tried to best me,  
I made it be my bitch.

And now I know what I can do,  
I am a Hunter through and through,  
It is still me here underneath - with teeth!

_She lets her teeth and claws pop out, and smiles brilliantly._

**Dean:** That cow is enjoying this.

**Sam (picking a pair of panties off his head):** So is the front row, apparently.

_Ronnie sings on, unexpectedly finding a burst of formant, which makes all the stripper!snowflakes jump in fright, shedding sequins._

Let 'em show, let 'em show,  
They'll tear my prey apart,  
Let 'em show, let 'em show,  
Punch through and take the heart!

What I am  
Is what I'll stay,  
So the Hunt goes on…

**Gabriel:** Aaaaargh! Like I can afford to lose any coverage at all!

**Castiel:** I am finding the perkiness of my vessel's nipples somewhat uncomfortable.

**Dean and Sam:** AAAAAAAARGH!

_Ronnie waves her arms about with more enthusiasm than artistic expression as she sings_

The shapeshift is my weapon, power and insight  
And I will use it, take the Hunting out into the night,  
The same thing drives me, it's a hunger and a need,  
To track the monsters down, and then to make them bleed!

**Crowley the snowman:** Did she have to start with my eardrums?

_In the grip of The Karaoke Addict Within, Ronnie goes for it_

Let it flow, let it flow,  
They will bleed and they will die,  
Let it flow, let it flow,  
I'll howl it to the sky,

Girl or wolf,  
By night or day,  
And the Hunt goes OOOOOOOOOONNNNNN!

_As she hits the high note with the subtlety of an air raid siren, a couple of stage lights blow out, a passing cherub drops from the sky, and the dancing snowflakes wince and then shriek as the last of their sequins are blasted off, and seams of their spangly shorts start to split._

**Sam, Dean, Castiel and Gabriel:** EEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

**Ronnie (with a look as cocky as any Queen Elsa could muster):** Silver never suited me anyway.

_The dancing stripper!snowflakes try to crowd behind the protesting snowman as the audience opens up with the supersoakers full of chocolate sauce, then storms the stage. _

**Crowley:** Ooooooh, I think somebody just grabbed my carrot!

_Ronnie stands looking dazed; The Driver comes onstage to hand her a bunch of flowers. She curtsies, and beams. Curtain comes down, insurance assessor arrives to inspect the damage._

**FIN**


	19. Chapter 18

I'd love to hear somebody who can sing, sing Ronnie's song - I, unfortunately, am one of nature's contraltos, with a voice like a foghorn, i.e. if you can't get the note right, just compensate with volume. But the dancing snowflakes? The ghastly thing is, there's probably already fanart of something very similar out there in internetland. Le shudder...

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen**

"You're gonna wear that thing out," muttered Sam as Dean sat, RJ in his lap, tapping at the laptop.

"Well, when inspiration strikes, I gotta get it down," stated Dean, smiling as an alert pinged. "Oh, hey, I got another review!"

"Forget your epic tragedy!" growled Sam, "You're supposed to be writing the opposite of your epic tragedy!"

"I am!" protested Dean, "What about your crap chapter?"

"I had to make a few changes," Sam conceded gloomily, "It was just so awful, it looked intentionally awful, but it's a self-insertion, and fanfic readers often really hate those. It's bound to get the attention of our fanfic nazi fugly, and convince it that I'm a complete travesty as an author. So, where are you headed?"

"Anywhere," humphed Dean, "So long as I don't have to listen to either of us having sex with an angel in a male vessel."

"Good luck with that," sighed Sam glumly. "The self-insertions session might be safe – nobody ever goes into their own Supernatural story to watch you have sex with Cas, they do it to have sex with you themselves."

"Yeah?" Dean brightened. "Stories about me havin' sex with women?"

"That, or getting married," shrugged Sam.

"Hmmmm," Dean frowned thoughtfully, "Kind of like fanfic Russian roulette."

"Well, if they read mine out, make a point of talkin' about how crap it is," instructed Sam.

"What's your pen name, then?" asked Dean. "SaladSister? Collegegirl? EmbraceTheRainforest?"

"Embrace the… what the hell?" yapped Sam.

"You could take some time to go and get a little Samscaping done, is all I'm sayin," intoned Dean judiciously.

"For the last time, I am NOT getting my legs waxed!" snapped Sam. "Anyway, I'm writing as 'Jaqueline Hyde'. What?" he demanded as Dean rolled his eyes. "It's my evil alter ego, okay, the one that writes really badly and should be taken out and shot for the good of literature." He looked at his program. "Okay, well, I'll go do this one. 'He's Got The Whole World In His Angst'."

"Beats me why people like readin' about us gettin' uptight about stuff," shrugged Dean.

"Well, with you, it's because you're so insufferable when you're cheerful," humphed Sam. "And you cry so prettily."

"What?" Dean's face turned into a pout that would make a trout swoon. "I don't cry!"

"I'm afraid you do," Sam went on, "And prettily, according to some of these writers."

"Sam, I do not cry."

"Yeah you do."

"I do not!"

"You do."

"Look, sometimes, I might get something in my eye, and it might make 'em water, sure, maybe occasionally there's one solitary manly tear…"

"Yeah, they water. When you cry."

"Sam…"

"The more you cry, the more they love you, because the prettier your face gets."

"I don't! They don't! It doesn't!"

"I don't always cry, but when I do, I wish I could do it as prettily as Dean Winchester."

"Well, you can't – at least my face doesn't get all screwed up and snotty, like yours does."

"It does not!"

"Yeah, it does."

"It – does – not!"

"Yeah it does, when you sob like a long-haired emo."

"What, because I'm not completely emotionally constipated?"

"Because I'm not a hormonal little bitch. Real Winchesters don't cry. Right RJ?"

"Huh, your kid cried when he thought he was gonna be separated from your boobs!"

"Well, of course he did – he's my kid, with a proper appreciation of the female form. I don't expect you to understand."

"Jerk."

"Cry your way through sex, yes, but cry because a beautiful pair of nature's finest assets has been removed from within arm's length, you wouldn't even notice…"

"Titi!"

"OW! Knock it off, Mr Pliers!"

"Does it bring tears to your eyes?"

"Bitch."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Many of the women were using the occasion to do as much socialising as reading and writing, 'Samantha' noticed – the informality of the gathering provided an opportunity to talk about all sorts of things with like-minded individuals, like a sort of large scale extended girls' weekend away. 'She' found herself inevitably sitting with a group of other women who were knitting and crocheting, laughingly referring to themselves as the Stitch and Bitch and Jerk group, until the convenor called anyone interested to the next session.

"Well, we all know how much Mr Edlund's fans love angst," she began, getting a chorus of enthusiastic hoots, "And I think we've got some great examples of the right way to do it, and the way that could use a bit of work, so, if you'd like to read along, for our first piece, let's look at another one by ImpalaDude…"

Samantha tried to suppress her smirk, and steeled herself for the chorus of groans that Dee's writing was bound to provoke.

"I know a lot of you liked this author's last one, but this is a bit different, so…"

Keyboards clicked and Samantha enjoyed a small a frisson of horror that had nothing to do with a scary plotline, as Dee's latest offering began.

**Dean Winchester was a guy who knew how to get a job done. Fixing a car, or taking down a fugly, or getting the ladies where they want to go every single time and at least twice because if he didn't make her toes curl at least twice then the Living Sex God wasn't doing his job properly and that was just a travesty and totally NEVER going to happen, he knew how to get something done when it had to be done. Even when he wasn't looking forward to getting it done, like making a salad sandwich for his emo little vegiesaurus brother, or that time he had to be a ballerina to lure out a ghost, yeah, he really didn't look forward to that one but he totally nailed it because he was Dean Winchester and he did fifty-two fucky turns because that's just how awesome he was, so yeah. He could get stuff done.**

**Tonight, he wasn't going to make a woman's toes curl. He was going to nail her ass, by which he didn't mean show her a good time, although he could've if he'd wanted to, but make sure she ended up dead. And stayed totally dead.**

**He was loaded with silver, and carrying silver blades. She'd finally gone too far, and had to be put down like the mad dog she had become. Even being able to cook brownies that good can only get you forgiven for so much. Taking a swipe at his car had been the last straw. Somebody had to stop her before she damaged duco again, and that somebody was him.**

**Promising his Baby that he'd buff out and repaint the panel with the claw marks just as soon as he'd dealt with the monster responsible, he stepped out into the clearing.**

**She came out of the shrubbery, smirking and drinking. "Hey there Winchester," she grinned at him, "Want some?"**

**Dean felt a lump in his throat and it was totally because he was upset about his car. "Ronnie," he said, his voice sounding anguished yet totally sexy at the same time. "This has to stop."**

"**Hang on" she upended the bottle and drained it "Just want to make sure I got enough on board to piss on your corpse when I've torn you to pieces"**

"**No" a single manly tear that was concentrated angst and not at all sissy made its way down his vulnerably handsome face which did not end up looking at all pretty as a result. "I'm here to stop you. I'm sorry, Ronnie, but you're not you any more and you're going down."**

"**Don't flatter yourself" she snarled "The only thing I'm going to do with your dick is tear it off and use it as a rolling pin for my next batch of pastry yeah the shortcrust stuff you really like and you won't be there to eat it because you'll be dead hahahahaha!"**

**She pounced, shapeshifting in midair…**

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"So, the idea is to start off with a small brush, really subtle," 'Dee' explained as she wielded the eyeliner on a young woman who'd shyly approached to compliment her on her make-up, and asked her how she achieved her daytime look. She'd attracted something of an audience when she'd started pulling make-up items out of her bag, and held an impromptu tutorial.

RJ, who'd been introduced as 'Robbie', looked around the circle of smiling females, beaming hugely as they cooed at him, piping 'Titi!" as his little fingers twitched. When they passed Stanley the honey badger around, all miming tasting the knitted toy, Dee thought the kid might just shart himself in delight.

"Aaaaaaand, ta-dah!" Dee flourished the eye pencil, "A daytime look that says I'm hot but classy, and totally not a slut." Her circle of admirers gave her a small round of applause as the convenor called the session to order.

"Welcome back!" she began, "I think we should all pat ourselves on the back for being here, because you gotta be thick-skinned or really silly to tackle self-insertion in fanfic!" That got a giggle. "So, while we will be looking at a couple of stories that may not be great works of literature, please remember that we're here to have fun, and help out fellow writers, and writing doesn't come easily to everybody."

The make-up group shuffled their seats around, and Dee seated 'Robbie' more comfortably on her lap.

"So, we're going to start with one by Jaqueline Hyde – remember, you don't have to identify yourself if you don't want to, and no outing, either, please…"

"That's Auntie Samantha," Dee murmured to Robbie, casually looking around, "Keep your eyes peeled for anybody who looks like they're gonna explode."

Hunter's senses on full alert, she scanned the room without looking as the reading began...

**Some people complain about pet dogs being frightened of thunderstorms; I never do. Monty is frightened of thunderstorms, and that's always reassured me. It's such a very ordinary, normal thing.**

**He wasn't always Monty, though – when Dad brought him home from the animal shelter, several years ago now, and announced that he'd been christened Jimmy when he'd been rescued from a construction site, I yapped "No!" and renamed him. "He doesn't look like a… Jimmy," I protested, "He looks like a Monty." My parents let it go at that. That sort of pronouncement is normal for somebody at that age to make; I've been very careful about that, doing normal things, being normal, ever since…**

_**His head burst like a ripe melon**_

**I was reading when the storm broke, back at home, enjoying the short break between graduating and having to find a job, in the space between education and employment – my future as an adult (and my tuition loan debt) loomed large on the horizon, but for a few more weeks, I could make like it was just another school break, letting my mind wander over what my mother insists on referring to as my 'pulp fiction' (she's never seen the movie), even though I read them all on my Kindle these days.**

**I still have the earliest editions in hardcopy though, dog-eared and well-thumbed. **_**Supernatural, Twilight, True Blood, Vampire Diaries**_**, I've been reading them all for years.**

**I have to admit to a particular soft spot for Carver Edlund's books. My friend Simone, whom I've known forever, will tell you I'm a Samgirl because I'm a hopeless romantic with a yen for little lost emo boys. When we were at high school, we could spend hours talking about them. She liked them for the hot bodies and the angst, and I said I did too. **

**I sure as hell would never admit that what I loved about the **_**Supernatural**_** books was that they're fiction, a constant reminder that it's just stories, made-up monsters and fanservice and what bored young women want to read about. It's not real. There's no such thing as Hunters, there's no such thing as demons, there's no such thing as special children**

_**It was Mr Benson the day before that math test**_

**They're not real. None of it is real.**

**Like the… things I sometimes see. Not real. Coincidences. But not real.**

**Monty is scared of thunderstorms.**

**Except this time, he wasn't. And that scared me. Because it wasn't normal. And I like normal. I like real. I like**

_**I saw the accident the day before it happened **_

**ordinary and normal and rational, which is why I studied science.**

**When I dropped my Kindle to pick up my phone, Monty started growling at it. My hand was shaking when I picked up my cell to dial Simone; I've always been at home with my own company, but **

_**A tall guy with shaggy hair, his face a picture of anger, shouting something, a bearded man with a trucker's cap, lifting a gun, facing another man, a man with black eyes, but he's too slow**_

**The lightning flash was too bright for the sound of the thunder, and Monty howled and I think I must've screamed when the lights went out…**

**When they came on again, I was on the floor. Well, on a floor. It wasn't my floor.**

**If Simone had been with me, she probably would have commented on how hot the guy pointing the gun at me was – all I could see was the gun, completely steady in his hand, and a willingness to do murder in his green eyes.**

"**What the fuck are you?" he demanded. "Talk."**

**I sprawled there, gawping like a fish out of water, until I heard the growl. **

**It wasn't Monty. Monty might have a bit of Rottweiler in him somewhere, maybe a couple of hundred-and-twenty-eighths****, but he's nowhere near that big.**

**And Monty's eyes don't glow red.**

**And it all snapped into place.**

**I made myself look past the gun, and finally recognised him. Dean Winchester didn't look at all like the pictures on the covers of the books. He looked a lot more dangerous than that. Eventually, I found my shaking voice.**

"**I… don't know. But I think a demon is going after Bobby Singer. And your brother is going to get in the way."**

* * *

Oh dear, Sam just had to go back and make a few adjustments, didn't he? I wonder what genre they'll tackle next? How the hell are they going to flush out the fugly at this rate? Feed the bunny reviews, and let's see if we can wring the answer out of this loony little leporid.


	20. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Sam was wearing an expression like thunder as he plonked himself down next to his brother. He was not happy. He was not at all happy. He'd felt himself alone, an island of intellect, a reef of reason, a peninsula of propriety, maybe even an archipelago of articulation (or maybe just an atoll), surrounded by a sea of substandard storytelling, as the women around him has sighed and gushed and, and, yeah, they'd _fangirled_ over Dean's story, which was just as bad as the previous one.

"Hey, Sammy," Dean barely looked up from his laptop.

"What the hell was that?" Sam began without preamble, "What the hell did you think you were writing?"

Dean looked up. "I just did what you told me," he said, "I wrote the exact opposite."

"No you didn't!" snapped Sam, "You wrote exactly the damned same!"

"I did not!" protested Dean.

"Dean, it was another Dean-goes-out-to-kill-Ronnie story!" Sam growled, "Just like the other one!"

"It was not!" Dean insisted, "It was totally different!"

"How?" demanded Sam, "How was it different? The premise was improbable and contrived, the dialogue was one-sided, the grammar, holy crap, it's like you don't have much punctuation to use to start with and you use it all up in the first few paragraphs. And 'fucky turns'?"

"You know," Dean twirled a finger, "When a ballerina stands up on her toes, and turns around on the spot. Fucky turns. Bobby said I nailed it, fifty-two of 'em, and Odile is only supposed to do thirty-two."

"Fouetté, Dean," Sam said between clenched teeth, "The term is fouetté."

'Well, it felt fucky," Dean sniffed disdainfully. "I sure felt fucky afterwards. How the hell those chicks do that without throwin' up is a mystery…"

"The point was," Sam cut in, "You were supposed to write something completely different!"

"It was different in everything," asserted Dean, "This time, I didn't want to kill her, but I had to, and I did the whole angst thing, and best of all, I won!" He paused. "If it was so crappy, why are you so pissed? I thought you wanted me to write crap."

"I did!" Sam agreed.

"So, according to you, I wrote crap," Dean pressed, "So, why the face like your underwires are pokin' into you?"

"Oh, God, did you have to mention the bra thing?" Sam practically wailed. "Gah! I'm looking forward to burning these things when this job is done!" He tweaked at a strap in irritation. "You might've written crap, but they loved it!"

"They did, didn't they?" Dean smiled sunnily. "I've been gettin' reviews."

"They weren't supposed to love it!" griped Sam. "But they kept going on and on about how 'authentic' the voice of 'Dean' was, and how the rambling is just a manifestation of your capacity to take your Egyptian cruises up the Nile River, you know, where you sail along as Deanopatra, Queen of Denial…"

"At least I wrote crap," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "They used your story. What the hell happened to it between 'Ooooooh it's so hard to write so badly' and submitting it?"

"The first version was too crap," Sam stated Sam firmly, "It was just so crap, that it would've been spotted as artificially crap, intentionally crap, straight away. So I had to make a few changes, just to make sure it was, you know, naturally crap."

"That was crap?" Dean cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. "That first chapter you submitted, you think that was crap?"

"It was total crap," Sam sighed, "I was embarrassed to put it out there in the public domain. I mean, there was no real intro to the OC, no indication of a setting, or a time period, the expression was stilted, the premise, ha, there wasn't one, the whole 'Oooooh look I'm in a _Supernatural_ story!' thing was as flimsy as TP, and…"

"Oh, great," groaned Dean, "Mr Perfectionist has his OCD game on. They loved it, bitch. They went nuts for it! The panel kept referring back to it as an example of how to do a self-insert without immediately alienating your entire audience! You check your account, they'll be gushing all over it."

Sam dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, God, how is this so difficult?" he complained. "You're writing crap, and they love it, I'm writing crap – "

"Which isn't even crap," interrupted Dean.

"It was totally crap!" asserted Sam.

"Maybe at Stanford it would be crap," Dean suggested, "But here, they keep goin' on about how this is mean to be fun – for people who aren't so keen to get their grammar nazi jackboots on first thing in the mornin', it aint such a problem. One person's crap is another person's trashy enjoyment."

Sam groaned. "This is turning out to be harder than I'd thought," he sighed, "If the stories that are crap aren't being perceived as crap, just how crap do they have to be to set off this fugly's crap detector? The women who turned on each other, I'm telling you, their writing was appalling…"

"According to you," Dean noted.

Sam took the small mirror compact out. "Mirror mirror, in my lap, who decides who's writing crap?"

The glass fogged and swirled…

_This man's work is that man's leisure;  
This girl's crap is that girl's treasure_

"Great," Sam grumbled, "So, crap is in the eye of the beholder." He looked at his watch. "I vote we give it up for today, get back to the room, and, and, I don't know, eat a handful of aspirin because I'm getting a headache."

"Have a bubble bath," suggested Dean, "Go get your nails done, it's very relaxing. And while you're there…"

"Dean, NOBODY is waxing me, okay?" Sam growled. "It's not like anybody will be looking at my legs, so I don't care."

"It's all about bein' your best self, Sammy," beamed Dean, "And feeling happy in your own skin."

"Well, I'm feeling just fine with my follicles occupied, thanks very much."

Dean let out a large sigh. "I bet Cinderella's fairy godmother never had this much trouble." RJ made a querulous noise. "Yeah, I think somebody else wants dinner, too."

"Well, we can order in," Sam decided, not wanting to give 'Dee' any excuse to head out and possibly be diverted by a bar.

"Great!" chirped Dean, "I can get to work on my next story!"

"This time, it has to be something different, okay?" Sam stipulated. "Something totally different. Really, totally different." He tapped at the meeting program. "Try an AU, and make it crap."

"AU?"

"Alternative Universe," Sam reminded his brother, "Like that time we ended up in an alternative reality, where Dean and Sam Winchester were federally employed Hunters, and Bobby was our boss? It's a story where we're us, but in a different setting. Seventeenth century. Or Twenty-fourth century. Or we're in high school. Or in a band. Or something. Cas always pops up. It's us, and the people we know, but in a totally alternative setting." He shuddered. "Think HELL-TV."

"Yeah?" Dean frowned in thought. "It's us, Jim, but not as we know it? So, I could have my own workshop, where I restore classic cars?"

"Yeah."

"Or, I could be captain of the football team!"

"Yeah, you could."

"Or international billionaire playboy, bein' chased around the world by beautiful women."

"I guess so."

"On my own amazing private yacht, because I aint flyin'."

"Naturally."

"I could have this huge, amazing boat! I could be captain of my own ship!"

"I can see you're getting the idea," Sam narrowed his eyes. "Plenty of scope to screw it up royally, and write some real crap."

"Well, it will be a shame to disappoint my fans," pouted Dean, "But I can give it a go." He shut the laptop. "But I'll bet that whatever reality we end up in, you'll still be the one who cries like a little bitch."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam did decide to have a bath to try to relax – the whole exercise, the genderbending thing, the damned foundation garments, the apparent inability of anybody to see just how crap his brother's writing was, was getting to him and , strangely, he found he was craving chocolate cookies. He found a dog-eared copy of _The Grapes Of Wrath _in their room and, almost gibbering with gratitude, took it into the bathroom with his cookies. As he stuffed the delicious goodies into his face, to the background rattle of Dean's typing, he thought that maybe things weren't as bad as he thought they were, and that tomorrow would be better.

"Feel better, Princess Samantha?" asked Dean.

"Actually, yeah, I do," Sam replied.

"You look like somebody's grandma in those pyjamas."

"Flannel is warm and comfy," Sam shot back, "And at least I don't look like a hooker."

"Aint nothin' wrong with wantin' to feel pretty," Dean said airily, returning to the keyboard. "So, how many cookies are left… did you eat them all? You greedy bitch!"

With a serene smile, Sam seated himself on his bed, and opened his laptop. He had a plan. It was a cunning plan. A very cunning plan. A very very cunning plan indeed. In fact, his plan was so cunning, you could put a hat on it and call it Bobby Singer.

"What are you smirkin' at?" Dean demanded.

"I have an idea," Sam mused, "Maybe I've been goin' at this the wrong way around. Given my inability to write what's accepted as 'crap', and your readers' inability to realise that you are writing crap…"

"What do you mean?"

"It's just an idea," Sam shrugged, "But I'm going to test a theory. We want to attract the attention of this fugly, right?"

"Yeah."

"So, maybe we've been using the wrong strategy."

"What are you gonna do?"

"I'm gonna review whatever it is that you've been writing."

"Okay," Dean smiled, "It's totally different, like you said, an AU story. My fans like it so far!"

"Why does that not reassure me in the least," muttered Sam, tapping at the keys until he found ImpalaDude's story account on the conference site. Under 'Works In Progress For Comment', he opened a file.

**When Bobby Singer, Quartermaster of the**_** Impala**_**, went looking for his captain he headed straight for the tavern called **_**The Salvage Yard**_** because it had the prettiest and buxomest and wenchiest wenches in all of London and Dean would definitely head there with his pockets full of gold from their last expedition for some gambling and drinking and some beautiful natural acts although he usually never had to pay for it because he was so awesome that the wenches queued up when he was ashore. He found the rakishly handsome devil-may-care young captain at the bar, not wearing a sissy ruffly shirt of course he was totally cool in a black shirt with a wench on one arm and a tankard in the other, regaling the proprietor with stories of their latest voyage. First Mate Castiel sat next to him, radiating the sort of cat's ass disapproval he always did whenever Dean wanted to do anything fun because he was a total Puritan.**

"**Bobby!" he called when he saw his Quartermaster approaching, "Come and have a drink with us! Ellen, another tankard and some more of your best grog!"**

"**You pay me first, you damned pirate," Ellen said in a totally grumpy voice.**

"**I'm not a pirate, I'm a privateer," said Dean, giving the girl in his arm a squeeze "I totally have a letter of Mark" **

"**Bobby what's wrong?" asked First Mate Castiel, seeing Bobby's face.**

"**Dean, I got some bad news," Bobby said "About your brother."**

**Dean sat up looking very manly and serious and worried about his little brother who was a lieutenant on the Navy ship **_**Stanford**_**. "Sam? What about him?"**

"**His ship was attacked and sunk," Bobby said, to general gasps of horror from the people in the tavern, "And your brother was wounded in action and taken prisoner."**

**Dean snarled in a really masculine way and his hand went to his cutlass. "What ship?" he said "I'm gonna sail the seven seas to rescue Sammy if I have to sink every ship between here and Antarctica."**

"**Dean," said Castiel, "Antarctica hasn't been discovered yet."**

"**Whatever,dude I'm gonna rescue Sam and sink whoever took him. What ship was it?"**

**Bobby's face darkened. "There were only a couple of survivors," he said "And they said that the **_**Stanford**_** and the **_**Chevrolet**_** saw action against… the **_**She-Wolf**_**."**

**Everybody in the tavern gasped.**

"**Aint no such ship," said Dean "It's a myth that lady pirates use to frighten their kids, like, if you don't shut up and go to sleep right now, the **_**She-Wolf **_**will come and take you away and the captain will eat you."**

"**Plenty of sailors think she's real," said Ellen the bartender "I've heard enough men talk about her although there are rarely survivors."**

"**And the stories are remarkably consistent," Castiel said, with his usual gravelly voice as he stared intently at Dean in that really worried but not at all homoerotic way he had, "A vessel with a figurehead depicting a ravening wolf's head and if fired on she returns fire with so many guns that there is something unnatural about it."**

"**That just means she got a well-trained crew," Dean said "And I don't believe the crap about her captain either."**

"**Nobody knows what to believe about her captain" Castiel went on, still doing the eye sex stare thing (no homo). "They say the captain is deformed, they say the captain keeps a pack of savage dogs as part of the crew and they tear seamen apart and cannot be killed with gunfire."**

"**That's crap" Dean said "You put enough rounds into anybody they die. If it bleeds we can kill it."**

"**They say the captain is not even human, but is an unnatural abomination of some sort," said Bobby, "And there are those who claim they've been on board and survived and say… she's actually a woman."**

**There was a round of nervous laughter from the tavern because the idea of a woman captaining a pirate ship was like totally unbelieveable but plenty of others had heard about the mysterious ship that rarely left any survivors behind and then this figure at the bar waring a cloak and hood like a Sith or something said "Its all true"**

"**Dafuq?" said Dean**

**The mysterious hooded figure turned towards him "It's all true the captain of the **_**She-Wolf**_** is a woman. Well, she's female, whether she counts as a woman or not is up for debate frankly but she is not human, she is a monster, and she sails the seven seas forever searching."**

"**Now, don't go bothering my customers, Andrew" said Ellen in a totally severe voice, "Don't mind him he was injured at sea and he's not right in the head."**

"**And how would you know then, mysterious strange man?" asked Dean with a chuckle. "What's she searching for?"**

**The figure threw back the hood to reveal a scarred face with one eye missing. "Because I have met her," he said "And if your brother is taken then if he is young and handsome though probably not as handsome as you he is in great danger. She is searching for her life partner, her pair-bond."**

"**Holy shit!" yelled Dean "What the fuck happened to you?"**

"**I displeased her," the mysterious Andrew answered "And barely escaped with my life. If your brother is taken alive it can mean only one thing – she finds him attractive, and means to mate with him."**

* * *

Deary deary me - poor Sam, is there no end to the outrages that his brother insists on inflicting upon his delicate literary sensibilities? No ruffles, no homo, and no mercy shown to punctuation.

Feed Alfie-Con reviews so we can find out what Sam's cunning plan is.

And if anybody finds pictures of pirate!Winchesters out there in interwebsland, I DON'T WANT TO KNOW, all right? Denizens: they are depraved.


	21. Chapter 20

Good grief, I've created a monster – pirate!Jimiverse!Winchesters. You'd think I'd have learned by now, the way these things have a propensity to take on lives of their own. I mean, look at RJ. And Ronnie. And Andrew. And Das Bus. And The Haunted Tea Cosy Of Polecat Bottoms.

Oh, and an ***_**AUTHOR CREDIT*****_ goes to **MaddyR**, for a completely sadistic suggestion she made. Denizens; they are depraved, even if they do get shit done.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty**

Outing 'herself' as Samantha Plant writing as Jaqueline Hyde, Sam began a critique of ImpalaDude's latest offering, but quickly ran into trouble. He didn't want to come across as so offensive that he'd be booted off the server, but he had to be acerbic enough that it would be obvious he was really annoyed by the standard of the writing. And trying to think of a polite way to say YOU ARE AN INCOMPETENT IDIOT was making his head ache.

"Gah!" he snapped, sitting back and rubbing his eyes.

"The inspiration fairy not whackin' you with her wand?" grinned Dean, still typing.

"Oh, I got all the inspiration I need," Sam replied glumly, "It's the tact fairy's magic wand I really need here." He glared at his brother. "So you will be absolutely no help there."

"Haters gonna hate," smiled Dean with his usual obnoxious cheerfulness, "Spiters gonna spite spite spite spite spite, slighters gonna slight slight slight slight slight, I'm just gonna write write write write write…"

"I'm not spiting or slighting, Taylor," Sam grumbled, "I am trying to write a considered yet trenchant critique of your work."

"What, so this is your plan?" Dean sniffed. "Dissing my writing?"

"Exactly," confirmed Sam. "I want to attract the attention of whatever-it-is as a fellow campaigner for good writing, and the appreciation thereof. If we can't write crap that'll draw this thing out, then I'll try to get it to let me into its tent, so to speak."

Dean was instantly serious. "I don't like it," he intoned, "I don't like you trolling yourself as fugly bait, Sam."

"Well, you can hardly do it," Sam rolled his eyes. "And I've already shown myself to be a lone voice in the wilderness, drawing attention to terrible writing, even if there are people who find it amusing."

"I don't like it," Dean repeated, "Anything else you come up with, you run it past me before you even think of gettin' too close to this thing – the minute anybody makes any sort of contact that's suspicious, you tell me, bitch. You keep me informed on a minute by minute basis."

"Yes, Mom," Sam drawled, turning back to his screen with a sigh. "God, I never thought this would be so tricky."

"You need some help?" Dean returned to his infuriating grinning. "I am, after all, one of the most upvoted authors of the meeting."

"Yeah, maybe you can," Sam mused, "Can you think of a way to say 'JESUS CHRIST FOR THE LOVE OF CAS STOP WRITING AND NEVER GO NEAR A FRIGGING KEYBOARD AGAIN', only politely?"

"Bitch."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

In the end, Sam decided to sit on his critique overnight, then review it again. It was a strategy that Bobby had taught him when he was still at school, albeit using firearms rather than literary reviews as an example of how to avoid making rash decisions.

"Boy, let me tell you about my gun drawer. You see, when I decide that some idjit needs to be shot to make the world a better place, I load the gun, then lock it in the drawer, and leave it overnight, then I sleep on it. If I wake up in the mornin', and I'm still of the opinion that the asshat needs to be shot, then I can go get the gun – but mostly, I find I've cooled off enough to think about things more sensibly by then."

"Does it really work?" Sam had asked, "Does it really help you get less angry?"

"Your father's still alive, aint he?" Bobby had scowled.

So he was feeling less literarily outraged by the time they'd had breakfast at a small diner (where RJ had charmed the staff with his beaming and appreciative calls of 'Titi!' to every waitress), and more inclined to look past his brother's callous mistreatment of English expression in order to concentrate on the job.

That lasted right up until they were back at the small coffee shop at the meeting, and he got a look at the snippets Dean had added to his story.

**Dean discussed the problem with Bobby and Castiel as the**_** Impala**_** was being resupplied.**

"**Okay, let's just say that the **_**She-Wolf**_** and her monster captain exist," said Dean, "How do we find her? She could be anywhere." He turned to the parrot that sat on his shoulder nibbling at his hat. "Stop that, little dude, or I'll hand you over to Benny and have him cook you up."**

"**Bollocks! Bollocks!" shrieked the parrot, bobbing up and down. "Bollocks! Bollocks! Lucifer's bum!"**

"**Seriously?" said Dean "If you're gonna do that go bug Bobby."**

**The parrot immediately flew to Bobby's shoulder, and proceeded to rub against his ear. "Darling, darling," it went.**

"**Knock it off, ya idjit bird," said Bobby "Well, desperate situation and all that, we could go and see Rowena."**

"**Bollocks! Bollocks!" the parrot yelled again.**

"**Well, if we gotta go see that witch, I'm leaving him on board – last time, he shat all over her and tried to peck her eyes out."**

"**Bollocks! Bollocks!"**

"**Shut up, Crowley!"**

…

**When the pain in his leg and side and head backed off some Sam sat up and took another drink from the bottle that had been left beside him, and looked around. It was dark and he was in a cabin that was bigger than what he was used to. A figure moved in the shadows.**

"**Who's there?" he said.**

"**The person who hauled your arse out of the shitfest," came the reply. "Drink up."**

"**Who are you?" said Sam "And where are we?"**

"**You can call me 'Captain', or 'Ma'am', the voice said, "Although if you forget and call me 'Sir' I don't mind that much and its an easy mistake to make what with me looking totally like a guy like I do." The shape moved into the light from the lamp.**

"**Holy shit!" said Sam.**

**The scarred face smiled. "You're aboard the **_**She-Wolf**_**," said the ugly woman, "Yes she's real, yes I'm real, no you're not dead. Drink up."**

**Sam took another drink. "This is pretty good stuff I've never tasted grog like it."**

"**It's called houndswort" she said.**

"**Hey, where are my clothes" said Sam.**

"**You won't need em tonight," she said, "Come on, drink up and come below deck so I can lock you up."**

"**Dafuq?" said Sam.**

"**I could chain you up instead if you prefer, but locking you up will be easier in the long run, as cute as I'm sure you'd look in a collar."**

**Oh great, thought Sam, I've been abducted by a kinky bitch just what I need I wish Dean was here he likes this sort of thing, I've heard enough from that brothel called the **_**Nevada**_** where Madam Amanda keeps a bawdy house for men with an appreciation for frisky women who know a lot about tying knots which might be useful on a ship but not so much ashore unless you're into that sort of thing which I'm not and I think I might be going to cry just thinking about it... **

…

"**It don't make sense," said Dean, looking at the map, "This compass doesn't work, that damned witch, when we get back I'm gonna take Crowley to crap on her."**

"**Bollocks!"**

"**Shut up, Crowley." He felt a presence behind him and turned to see Charlie the cabin boy trying to look at the map. "What are you doing, Charlie?"**

"**Sorry, Captain," the boy looked down.**

"**No, wait, he's got a good head on his shoulders," said Bobby thinking for the thousandth time that there was something about the cabin boy that he just couldn't put his finger on "Let him look."**

**Charlie peered at the map and the strange magic compass and pronounced "I think that if this is going around in circles, we might have to sail around in circles – wait for something to come to us."**

"**Good work Charlie," Dean said thinking that if the boy's balls didn't drop soon he'd have to drop in to a port and have him seen by a doctor "Bobby, set us a course"…**

…

"**Humbug?" asked the smaller man, proffering a bag of boiled sweets through the bars.**

"**Fuck off," growled Sam, prowling along one wall of the brig which was a stout metal cage.**

"**Suit yourself," shrugged the other man, crunching another piece candy.**

"**My father taught me never to accept candy from strangers," said Sam, "And you are definitely strange."**

"**I'm Gabriel," said the other man. "I wish you'd sit down, being locked in the brig with another naked guy is awkward enough, dude."**

"**Shut up," Sam sat down. "Why are we here anyway?"**

"**Because the captain ordered it," said Gabriel.**

"**We should be trying to break out," said Sam.**

"**Right," said Gabriel, "I'll just snap my fingers and mojo us some clothes, will I? And how do you propose to get past that?" He pointed out the large dog that had been left to guard them. "He looks hungry, and there's a lot of lean meat on you. You'd have to be damned quick to get past him."**

"**I'd only have to be quicker than you," said Sam…**

…

"**Nothing but fog, Captain," called the look-out from the crow's nest, "Fog, and I think I saw an iceberg."**

"**We shouldn't be hitting ice here" said Castiel. "The air is very cold, though."**

"**It aint natural" said Dean.**

**Suddenly a shape loomed out of the fog bank – it was a ship!**

"**Is it the **_**She-Wolf**_**?" yelled Bobby.**

**Dean looked through is spyglass. "Nope," he said, striking a manly and resolute pose to inspire courage in his crew, "It's worse than that. It's the **_**Perdition**_**."**

"**Oh no!" cried Charlie the cabin boy in his strangely high voice "That's the ship of the man they call Captain Lucifer, the most ruthless asshole to sail the seven seas!"**

"**Sonofabitch," said Dean, "Cas, what's wrong?"**

**Castiel looked terribly sad. "It's true that Captain Lucifer is a most ruthless and brutal man," he said. "I know this because he is my brother."**

"**Dafuq?" said Dean.**

"**I have never said anything about this before because our family is ashamed of him," explained Castiel. "As a swordsman he is second only to our oldest brother Michael. He is truly dangerous."**

**As they watched, the **_**Perdition**_** closed the gap between them strangely fast.**

"**Prepare to come about, and man the guns!" called Dean commandingly in a totally pirate voice, but the_ Perdition_ presented a broadside first and fired all her cannons…**

**…**

**Dean coughed and peered through the smoke when he heard a voice call "Ahoy**_** Impala **_**stand to and prepare to be boarded!"**

"**Fuck you – board this, asshole!"**

Bobby was wrong, he thought, I shouldn't just be loading the gun, but figuratively speaking I should be using consecrated iron, or maybe silver, or possibly even his Anti-Demon Mark V rounds with the sanctified dog crap, because Dean's writing is truly diabolical…

"I'm impressed," he snarked over coffee, "Just when I thought you couldn't get worse – you did."

"Tell that to my fans," replied Dean sunnily, "They love it!"

"They're philistines!" snapped Sam. "Jesus, Dean, after I read your latest laughable attempts at literature, I had to go and read a Crobby story!"

Dean's eyes bugged. "Hey, if you're gettin' into that, there's something wrong with you," he growled.

"I'm not 'getting into that'," Sam corrected his brother, "I had to go and read something that had spelling! And grammar! And, and, and no dangling participles! It's another platonic one about Crowley and Bobby teaming up to beat a demon who's getting ideas above his station, then heading off to the opera. Oh, there's a plot," Sam sighed wistfully, "There's a plot, and there's punctuation, and I'm not kidding, the Latin is perfect…"

"Well, maybe you should go find this perfect writer, and you can sit around and feel superior to the rest of us," sniffed Dean disdainfully. "Look, my readers are comin' to my defence – oh, they're not too pleased with you, Samantha."

"Good," griped Sam, "I hope it brings the fugly out, looking for me. If I'm lucky, I can get an insight into what it is and how it's operating. If I'm even luckier, it will tear my head off and eat my brains and I won't have to read any more of this, this, this trash!"

"I'm just gonna write write write write write," Dean hummed infuriatingly, jiggling RJ as the child clapped along. "Oh, hey, little dude, we've talked about this before, it's bad enough that Auntie Samantha keeps buying it for you, but if you're gonna have the frothed milk stuff, you gotta drink it, not play with it…"

"Titi faff!"

"Uh, yeah, thanks." Dean sighed, and took a handful of napkins to wipe the froth off his décolleté, "So, what's on for you now?"

"This one," Sam indicated one of the morning sessions. "It's called 'Fallen But Loved', which means it's gonna be all about you and Cas, and just crawling with terrible writing."

"Maybe I should just concentrate on my story," mused Dean.

"Whatever," Sam grumbled, heading into the meeting.

Dean watched him go. "The whole bra thing is really makin' him cranky, isn't it?" he said to RJ, who was absorbed in playing with his frothy milk. "And he doesn't even have underwires. What a lightweight."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Samantha seated herself in the room, steeled to hear tales Dean and Cas doing everything from going fishing to each other, but determined to stick it out in order to find more fodder for criticism. He expected it to be bad, very bad, very very bad indeed.

It wasn't.

It was worse than that.

Unfortunately, by the time the session started and the first story was a fully R-rated Samifer fic, it was too late to get out…

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Samantha decided to sit and maybe knit for a while before heading back out to find her bestie Dee – she was convinced that, between the Samifer, the Destiel, the Samstiel and the utter travesty that she could only label as Deastiam, the only way for her to prevent her head from exploding entirely was to wipe the hard drive and try to reboot the OS from scratch.

Seeing as she was burdened with a flawed and unreformattable squishy wetware brain rather than a reassuringly reprogrammable silicon one, a coffee and a huge piece of indulgently decorated black forest cake would have to do.

Strangely enough, she found herself feeling better with each desperate gulp of sugar-soaked fat-laden empty calories. Ronnie had once suggested that a piece of really good chocolate cake was a good remedy for anything for a broken heart to a seized engine, on the grounds that it couldn't possibly make things worse. By the time she was halfway through it, her left eye had stopped twitching and her hands had stopped shaking enough for her to pick up her knitting.

She was just finishing the first row when she felt a presence beside her, and looked up.

A young woman, perhaps a little younger than herself, stood smiling down at her. "Hi. You're Samantha, aren't you? Samantha Plant? Writing as Jaqueline Hyde?"

"Uh, yeah," Samantha replied.

"I'm Fiona," the other woman said, holding out a hand, "I loved your first chapter! I hope you keep going with that one! And I wanted to thank you for bringing up some of the problems with the writing that we've had – it was you yesterday, too, wasn't it?"

"Uh, yeah," Samantha nodded. "I mean, I don't want to be rude, or nasty, but I just, I just think if people would just spend some time to get their expression right, you know? Carelessness really gets on my nerves, because it's so unnecessary!" Then, because she was feeling particularly vexed, she added, "There's this one writer, ImpalaDude, whose stuff is just driving me crazy…"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Fiona cut in, "I'm with some of the organising committee, and we're on the lookout for people who know good writing when they see it – would you be interested in helping us out?"

* * *

Gasp! What is Alfie-Con the plot bunny up to (apart from traumatising Sam)? Feed him reviews and find out, because Reviews Are The Extraordinarily Large Slices Of Utterly Delicious Black Forest Cake In The Tea Break Of Life!


	22. Chapter 21

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Samantha smiled. "At this point, I'd be willing to do just about anything if I thought it would improve the standard of some of the writing."

"Great!" Fiona sat down, and leaned in conspiratorially. "Now, what I'm going to say might sound a bit weird to you, but hear me out before you decide I'm nuts, okay?"

"Okay, that's fair," agreed Samantha, taking another forkful of delicious chocolatey kirsch-soaked goodness.

Fiona grinned. "Tell me, Samantha, what do you know about Wicca?"

"Wicca?" Samantha's eyebrows rose. "You mean, as in, white magic?"

"Exactly!"

"Actually, I read a lot about it when I was younger," Samantha continued, "My, er, uncle was something of a practitioner, and he let me read some of his books, I never really tried anything much, though."

"Well," Fiona beamed, "There's a group of us with the local organising committee will be doing a working, asking for the blessings of the goddesses, and for inspiration and improvement for all our writers."

"What goddesses?" Samantha wanted to know.

"We invoke Brigid, the Celtic goddess of poetry and inspiration," Fiona enthused, "And also make appeal to Saraswati, Hindu goddess of poetry and prose, and to the Muses Calliope, Erato and Melpomene, for their domains of epic poetry, love poetry and tragedy."

"Well, that's pretty much got it covered." Samantha's expression became cautious. "Uh, I never practised, really, but I do know that tryin' to cast a spell on somebody without their knowledge and agreement is considered very bad manners and poor, um, sportsmanship, bad karma, so to speak, and if you're petitioning a Hindu goddess it might not be a good idea to do anything that might provoke karma to bite you in the ass…"

"Oh, we don't do workings _on_ anybody," Fiona explained indulgently, "We ask the goddesses to look kindly on our writers and bless our gathering with their wisdom, and offer inspiration and improvements to anybody who yearns for it."

"Oh, well that's okay, then," Samantha smiled, alarm bells ringing in her head like armoured gerbils on meth slam-dancing in metal buckets, "I'd love to help, if I can."

"Excellent! So, this is what we're gonna do…"

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"Finally, we get a break," muttered Sam, peering at his laptop, "This has to be it – a group of people who sound like they have no idea what they're dealin' with, casting a damned spell, with no particular target in mind." He frowned at the screen. "It's like standing on a balcony and throwing water balloons at the crowd below, hoping you'll hit somebody who's thirsty."

"I thought it was bad manners, if not actually dangerous, to go casting spells on people without askin' 'em first," commented Dean, recalling the educational lecture (and even more educational thrashing) Bobby had given him when he'd tried to work a minor curse on a bully when he was at high school.

"It is," Sam said grimly. "I have no idea whether they're actually managing a working, or just playing at it, or if they think it's worked but it's backfired, or if they've just managed to piss off some entity somewhere enough to set women to wanting to kill."

"Magic is like lawnmowers," Dean intoned grimly. "It don't kill people – people kill people."

"Uh, yeah," Sam eyed his brother dubiously. "So, first of all, I gotta work out if they're the real deal, then we gotta figure out what's goin' wrong: is it an evil spell, or is it some sorta cosmic comeuppance for humans who are getting too uppity for the liking of some goddess in particular, or karma in general?"

"I don't like you going by yourself," Dean scowled.

"You can't come with me," Sam stated firmly, "I'm the one who's been asked, you gotta stay with RJ, and I will not be party to your kid getting anywhere near a working that could go horribly wrong. Anyway, I won't be alone," he grinned. "I'll take Lars. Or Lara." At the mention of 'her' name the feminised Cockapooed dog looked up, and did a brain-explodingly cute head tilt of 'her' fluffy little face. "You don't fool me," Sam told 'her', "You just want some of my chocolate cookie. Well, you can't have any."

'Lara' ratcheted up the Big Brown Eyes.

"Oh yeah, you're the same little asshole in there, aren't you?" Sam grinned. "You might be even more convincing in your Cockapoo disguise, but you're not having any. I am immune to your emotional blackmail. It's for your own good; chocolate is bad for dogs."

"Ordinary dogs, maybe," Dean mused, "But given that these guys – or gals, sorry – are three-quarters Hellhound, I'm pretty sure a bit o' chocolate won't hurt 'em."

"Dean," Sam fixed his brother with an authoritative Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk), "In this plane of reality, they are dogs, and they are mortal. Chocolate is toxic to dogs. The theobromine in it is a mythylxanthine, very similar to caffeine, which it may also contain, and dogs can't metabolize it the way humans do. Feeding a canine chocolate can result in severe central nervous system effects."

"Well, what about Ronnie then, huh, Mr Chemistry-Talk?" Dean barked in triumph. "She eats chocolate cake like you eat lettuce. How come she's not dead?"

"Dean, she's a werewolf, nobody's ever studied werewolf metabolism!"

"Why not?"

"Because, because… look, for most of human history, humans have been more concerned with killing werewolves so they don't get torn to pieces, okay? It's pretty damned difficult to do any sort of systematic biochemical study of something that's trying to punch through your sternum and tear your heart out!"

"Well, maybe somebody should," suggested Dean. "I mean, how good would that be, if we had to kill a feral werewolf, and we didn't actually have to track it down, and stake it out, and bait it, and kill it with silver, all we had to do was bake it a big enough chocolate cake?"

Sam's Bitchface™ morphed into #8 (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Are you suggesting that werewolves could be strategically dealt with by tactical chocolate poisoning?"

"All we have to do is figure out how big a cake we'd need," Dean seemed to be warming to his theme with the worrying enthusiasm of a small child inventing a Perpetual Ice-Cream Machine.

"You're clearly the one with severe central nervous system effects happening," Sam rolled his eyes, "Your brain is obviously damaged."

Lara watched 'her' Alpha and his brother do the Upright equivalent of a companionable growl-wrestle, and since treat soliciting was clearly not going to happen, she let out a philosophical humph, and dropped her head to her paws.

"At least 'she' will be a good distraction, goin' around and behaving like a complete slut for pats and treats," chuckled Dean. "And we know that she'll have her nose for evil shit on the job." His face turned serious again. "Have any of the organisers been amongst the women who've been perps or victims at previous conferences?"

"That's a good question – I'll see if I can find out. I'm gonna pull together a charm for protection anyway, just in case there's blowback from this, and I'll need a couple of things to help me work out exactly what they're doing."

"You do that," muttered Dean, "Because if you come out spoutin' nothin' but tragically epic love stories I will salt and burn you myself. So, when does this inspirational working happen?"

"Later this afternoon."

"Well, me and 'Lennie' will be in the car, right outside," Dean stipulated in a voice that brooked no objection, "And the second his nose so much as twitches, we will both come in with guns and eyes blazing."

"What about RJ?" worried Sam.

"He'll be safe in Baby," Dean grunted. "She might be wearing a Volvo meatsuit, but her wardings are all still there." He sighed. "It's amazing she hasn't just seized with embarrassment," he said wistfully, "I seriously owe her, big time, after this, I'll have to make it up to her with some quality time…"

"Right," observed Sam tartly, "Make it up to your car. Your machine. Your inanimate object. What did you have in mind, some flowers, some chocolates, a bottle of vintage French engine oil, just the two of you…"

"A full detailing," Dean sniffed dismissively, "And I don't expect you to understand. He's got the gall to call me a philistine. He just don't understand cars, right, RJ? He don't understand about my Baby, the Impala?"

RJ (who was absorbed in a game that looked suspiciously like he was trying to get Stanley the knit toy honey badger and the wooden toy replica Impala that his father had made for him to entertain intimate congress) looked up and smiled. "Pala!" he enthused, beaming. "Pala! Voom voom! Wren'!"

"You tell him," Dean smiled back indulgently.

"Huh, insanity is hereditary," humphed Sam, looking at his watch, "I gotta get onto my research and charms."

"We can go back to the room," suggested Dean, "And I can keep working on my writing."

"Oh, God," groaned Sam, "Can't you do something less, less, vexatious?"

"Like what?"

"I don't know. You could start by trying to explain to your son that honey badgers don't, as a rule, uh, mate with cars."

"Hey, this is Stanley the honey badger," Dean reminded him, " He once stuck the head of a dead dog on the end of his dick and then used it to rape a fighting dog called Lucifer who was five feet tall at the shoulder with swastikas shaved into his sides to death…"

"Yaaaarg!" Sam yelped in outrage, glaring at his brother with a beautifully feminine version of Bitchface #13™ (You Are So Totally Gross I Don't Have A Bitchface Adequate To Convey My Utter Disgust).

It spoke volumes about his brother, he mused, that Dean could motivate him to think 'Hey, maybe a honey badger molesting a toy car isn't so bad after all'.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Dee drove Samantha to the street of the nondescript house where the spell working was to take place, and, with her bestie's imprecations to be careful and yell for back-up at the slightest hint of weird shit, Samantha headed up the sidewalk and to the front door.

In the Volvo!Impala, Dee took out her laptop, and started working on her story.

Samantha recognised some of the women there from the conference as general introductions were made. It was once again a social gathering, with drinks and snacks and the inevitable knitting.

"So, how long have you guys been practising Wicca?" asked Samantha pleasantly.

"Oh, Rachel here is really the one who practises," Fiona indicated a beaming young woman who was wearing the sort of 'occult' jewellery that a truly serious practitioner of The Craft would not be seen dead in, "But I kind of did some stuff at school."

"Well, you'll have to explain to me what to do," Samantha volunteered, watching Lara deploy the Big Brown Eyes on the unsuspecting in a shameless attempt to wheedle tidbits out of the other women.

"I've got the exact spell written down right here," confirmed Rachel, waving a sheet, "It's not that complicated. I've got all the ingredients, and all the artefacts we need, all we have to do is form a circle of power, and do the working."

"Sounds good," Samantha smiled, watching with resignation as Lara sneaked her muzzle onto yet another lap and, with the power of expression alone, managed to convey the fact that she was The Hungriest Dog In The World.

"It's totally harmless," said Rachel with the sort of confidence of somebody whose final words were 'Hey, hold my drink and watch this!'. "And let's face it, given some of the writing that's been submitted, nothing we could do could make it any worse!"

There was a general round of giggling at that.

As it turned out, Rachel knew more than her appearance and Samantha's first impressions would suggest; it quickly became apparent that this was a real spell, 'not very complicated' because it had been devised by somebody who really knew what they were doing. Whilst following along with the chants and required participation, Samantha kept a bunch of neurons monitoring the charms and the gris gris bag in her pockets for any indication of evil intent.

She'd have to go back over the exact details of the spell later, but it did seem to be a genuinely sincere appeal to a number of deities traditionally associated with inspiration and writing.

"Aaaaaand, we're done," pronounced Rachel as the final sage leaves smouldered out in what was being used as a 'chalice' but actually looked as if it was the sort of exquisitely ugly vase that an elderly maiden aunt might give to a young lady who was still unmarried in her thirties with the pointed explanation 'This is for your glory box'. The women cheered, and high-fived each other. "Now, who wants a Cosmopolitan!"

By the time Samantha was able to excuse herself without arousing suspicion (and, she estimated, Lara had eaten half her own bodyweight in purloined treats), she packed up her knitting, waved goodbye, and headed out to where Dee was waiting in the car, with RJ and Lennie curled together and asleep in the back seat.

"So, how did it go?" asked Dee.

"It was a true and sincere working," Samantha replied, pulling her cell from her pocket where it had been recording the entire event, "Pulled together by somebody who really knows their spellcraft. To be honest, I didn't think the Magrat Garlick cosplayer had it in her."

"So it was real, then?" pressed Dee.

"Yeah, but still no clear target - I don't think it had any evil intent, not a peep from Lara. Except to whine pathetically for treats." The dog's face indicated that she was completely unrepentant about that. "But being so non-specific, whether it actually worked or not remains to be seen."

"Well, back to the room, then," Dee decided, putting the laptop aside and starting the car, "I guess we'll have to wait until tomorrow to find out. So, let's get food, I've been starving out here waiting for you."

"I couldn't leave too early," Samantha protested, "I had to stay and socialise." She hiccupped gently. "And drink Cosmopolitans."

"Huh, figures," grumped Dee, "You get changed into a woman, and your drinking preferences don't have to change at all."

"Jerk."

* * *

If you are not yet acquainted with the _Action Figure Therapy_ channel on YouTube, and the ongoing battle of poor Ranger to do his job and stay more or less sane in a world clearly gone completely mad and vexing him terribly, do go and check it out, in particular the episode titled 'Honey Badger Blood Orgy' – you will receive an introduction to the character who inspired the name for RJ's favourite toy, in the Jimiverse and in Real Life. It's also the series that gave RJ and Connor the immortal phrase 'Moustache with titties'.

Meanwhile, leave reviews, but they'd better not have too much chocolate in them, because rabbits also are susceptible to theobromine intoxication if they eat chocolate, and we don't want little Alfie-Con the plot bunny to be at all unwell, we want him nice and healthy and fighting fit. So we can stomp him at the end of this fic.


	23. Chapter 22

Out of nowhere, Alfie-Con decided to dictate another chapter, which was highly inconvenient, since I have other things to do, but the little wretch WOULD NOT SHUT UP, so here's another chapter.

So, here's my proposal: I've posted two chapters today, so you leave me two reviews. One for each chapter, okay? You know what a review addict I am; reviewing more than one chapter per review is cheating. Like giving somebody who was born on December 25th a combined birthday+Christmas present. I post again, you review again. Do we have a deal? Good. No kissing required. So, if you haven't reviewed the previous chapter, go back and do it now, before you read this one. Go on, it'll still be here when you get back. I'm watching you…

**JIMIVERSE CSA:** May I just remind everybody that Action Figure Therapy is utterly hilarious, utterly entertaining, and UTTERLY NSFW. Srsly, with an episode entitled 'Honey Badger Blood Orgy', and a catch-phrase like 'Moustache with titties', it's NSFW. But it's all toy action figures, so if you put your earbuds in, you should be safe.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

"It doesn't make sense," Sam muttered, listening to the recording of the spell again, "On the face of it, Rachel knows her stuff, to pull this spell together – but how does somebody who looks like that actually manage pretty competent practise of The Craft?"

"Hiding in plain sight?" suggested Dean as he put RJ to bed in his travel crib, then went back to the laptop to recommence clacking away furiously. "You know, if you look like somebody who has no frigging idea what a witch actually does, then anybody who _does_ know what a witch actually does, will look at you and think, hey, she's wearin' the beaded curtain from that Danish porn shop in the main street, she can't possible have any frigging idea what a witch actually does…"

"Kind of reverse camouflage?" commented Sam. "Well, it worked on me. She just gives out the impression that she's well-meaning if not terribly effective. But this…" he waved a hand at his cell. "It's good. It was genuine. But if she's that good, how could she not realise the problem, the potential danger, of not 'aiming' a spell carefully?"

"So, you think it could work?" asked Dean, not looking up.

"Well, yeah, theoretically," opined Sam. "Or, it could be so non-specific as to end up pretty much ineffective. Or, having a loose end flapping around, it could be dangerous. But if she's good, maybe it will work. There's no way to tell until…" His voice trailed off. "Dean, what are you doing?"

"I'm re-writing some of my story," Dean peered at the screen. "I mean, it's great, my fans love it, but I think it could be improved."

"Show me that." Sam reached across the small table and snatched the laptop. Ignoring Dean's yapping protests, he spun it around to see what his brother had been writing.

**When Captain Dean Winchester swaggered into the **_**Salvage Yard**_** tavern of London fresh from the bath house and made his way to the bar, he found that two of his senior crewmates were already there, apparently deep in serious conversation.**

"**Well, don't you just smell like the inside of a Turkish brothel," growled Bobby Singer, the grizzled and grumpy Quartermaster of the**_** Impala**_**.**

"**And how exactly would you know what the inside of a Turkish brothel smells like, old man?" Dean shot back breezily. He was ashore again, with treasure in his strong room and gold in his purse, and he refused to let Bobby's habitual grumbling ruin his evening.**

"**I sailed them waters when you were just your Pater's cabin boy, playin' with his spyglass and gettin' under the carpenter's feet," Bobby humphed, "And you smell just like one of their wimmen."**

"**In the Barbary lands, it is customary to visit the hamam, the baths, several times a week," intoned Castiel Godson, the serious-faced First Mate of the **_**Impala**_** and Dean's best friend. "They believe that purity of the body promotes purity of the soul. Although they are heretics, the philosophy has much to recommend it." Having visited the stews himself for a thorough washing after a six-month voyage, he turned a disapproving eye on Bobby. "It is not so much that he smells of anything as he now no longer smells unwashed."**

"**Don't you berate me about cleanliness, you damned Puritan," Bobby muttered, "Aint safe for a body to sit in all that water. Unhealthy for the pores. I got washed when I was baptised, I'll get washed afore I'm buried. That's all the washin' a Christian man needs. Besides, there was that storm three weeks ago, that gave everybody a more thorough washin' than the Good Lord ever intended."**

"**A pirate's bath is the only one Bobby will ever take, Castiel, you know that," Dean grinned and gestured to the keeper of the tavern, "Now, tell me, why is it that we are back from a successful voyage, yet I find you both with the appearance of men on their way to Tyburn? Ellen, fetch me a bottle of your best grog to cheer these two up."**

"**Show me your coin first, you pirate," growled the woman who kept the tavern.**

"**Why, Ellen, you wound me," replied Dean in a hurt voice. "I am no pirate, but a privateer loyal to His Majesty's desires and interests. Why, I carry his Letter of Marque. Castiel here could read it to you."**

"**It is not a lack of strong drink that distresses us," commented Castiel in his usual serious tone, "But the receipt of most uncomfortable intelligence."**

**Bobby's face darkened, and Dean realised that his grumpiness was covering real concern. "Dean," he began, "We got some bad news. About your brother, Sam."**

**Dean was immediately on the alert. "What?" he demanded, immediately concerned for his younger brother, who was serving on a Navy vessel. "What has happened? Tell me!"**

"**A number of weeks ago, your brother's ship, the **_**Stanford**_**, and her sister ship the **_**Chevrolet**_** saw action against a buccaneer," Bobby told him, "But they were bested – the **_**Chevrolet**_** went to the bottom with all hands, and the **_**Stanford**_** was left a wreck, with no more than a handful of survivors, slowly sinkin', and if a passing merchantman hadn't chanced upon 'em, they'd have vanished without trace."**

**Dean staggered and sat down heavily, the sudden wave of dizziness washing over him having nothing to do with him still recovering his land legs. "Sam," he croaked, "Sam, my brother, was he… was he…"**

**Castiel and Bobby exchanged a look. "He was not aboard the _Stanford_ when the merchant vessel spotted her," he said gravely, but he hurried to continue as Dean's face drained of colour, grabbing his friend's shoulder. "Dean, your brother did not die. He was gravely wounded, and taken prisoner by the buccaneer, but he did not die."**

**Dean's face drew into a snarl. "Incompetent idiots!" he growled, "Those Navy wretches, they are incompetent idiots! Incompetent, vainglorious knaves and wretches! Appointed rank according to who their connections are, and how much they can pay for a commission! Most of 'em are not fit to skipper a manure scow, d'you hear me?" He turned a savage visage to his shipmate. "Fools who could not secure a two-against-one victory, and now my brother is abducted, and subject to who knows what fate, pressed into serving aboard a pirate vessel, sold into slavery…what vessel?" he demanded. "What vessel sank my brother's ship and abducted him?"**

**Bobby and Castiel exchanged a look. "There is some… conjecture about the vessel involved," Castiel eventually said carefully.**

"**Conjecture?" scoffed Dean, baring his teeth, "Conjecture? Either there was another vessel, or there was not. Or perhaps there is suggestion that God Himself struck these ships from the ocean? Davy Jones himself appeared, sailing in a ship of bones, and claimed them, perhaps?"**

"**The survivors were not best able to give a concise account of the action," Castiel went on, giving a distinct impression of a man standing too close to a cannon that has been lit, but has not yet fired.**

"**Not best able to… well, by thunder, why not?" raged Dean, "Have those useless fops and milksops of the Navy not thought to question them? Those worthless sons of she-dogs, I'll do it myself if I have to!"**

"**That would not be advisable," Castiel continued, with the maddening patience that he often deployed in the face of his captain's restless rashness.**

"**And why not?" Dean rounded on his First Mate.**

"**Because, you idjit," Bobby snapped, cutting in to derail Dean's angry tirade, "Because, on of 'em is in Haslar, dyin' of his wounds, and the other two are in Bedlam."**

**The snap of the old man's voice brought Dean up short. "Bedlam?"**

"**They have been committed to Bethlem Hospital," confirmed Castiel, "They were raving, and they were clearly rendered unsound of mind by their experience."**

**Dean dropped his head into his hands. "How am I to find my brother?" he asked in a small voice, "If I cannot even find tell of the vessel that has taken him, where do I begin my search?... what?" His face hardened as Castiel and Bobby exchanged a look. "What is it? Tell me!"**

"**Son, you have to understand, the two men in Bedlam, they aint right in their minds," Bobby began, "So what they were supposed to be sayin, it aint necessarily anything except the product of a lunatic mind."**

"**Anything," Dean said earnestly, "Anything that could give me a clue. What did they say?"**

"**Well, there was tell," Bobby swallowed, "There was tell that they claimed their vessels closed with, and were bested by… the **_**She-Wolf**_**."**

**Dean groaned as if he was in pain, and Ellen came from behind the bar, a concerned expression on her tired face. "Here," she placed a tankard at his elbow, "Drink this."**

**He took a long swig of grog, and sighed in defeat. "The **_**She-Wolf**_** is a myth, a phantom," he peered into the drink then took another long draught. "There is no such ship." A small smile found its way onto his face. "Sam said that on the last vessel where he served as a midshipman, the Master used to tell the youngest ones that if they did not learn their lessons and perfect their navigation, he would make an offering to the Witch of the Sea, and summon the **_**She-Wolf**_**, so they might be borne away and devoured by her monstrous captain."**

"**And yet, reports of sightings of, and encounters with, this vessel persist," Castiel pointed out.**

"**Aye, they do," confirmed Ellen, "I have kept this tavern longer than I care to remember, and for many years, seamen, from many countries, have spoken of her. Strange, wild tales, incredible things."**

"**Drunk men will spout any sort of folly," Dean sighed.**

"**In vino veritas," Castiel intoned. "In wine is the truth. Get a man drunk enough, and he will say what he is really thinking."**

"**Especially if he thinks it will prompt his audience to buy him more grog to encourage his entertaining fictions," Dean snapped.**

"**Castiel is right," Ellen insisted, "Men from the known corners of the world drink in my tavern, it's known I'm one of the finest brewers in London, and thought the tales may be difficult to credit, yet there are things that recur in the tellings."**

"**I have heard such tales," Bobby nodded thoughtfully. "Stories of the kind that men to tell when the night is dark and the wind is howling. How the **_**She-Wolf**_** prowls the seas, lookin' for men to steal away. They say her captain is a monster, deformed and hideous. She's crewed by men who have the heads of dogs. A pack of wild dogs fight with the crew to take a vessel. I have even heard tell," his voice broke into a chuckle, "That her captain is a woman. And a powerful ugly one, at that."**

"**So, this ship, she does exist, and yet she does not," scoffed Dean. "How is a man to tell what amongst the tales is true, and what is not?"**

**Before anyone else could answer him, a low voice, as much of a growl as a voice, answered from the shadows behind him.**

"**All of it is true, yet none of it is true."**

**Ellen turned an exasperated expression to the figure in the corner. "Now, don't you go distressing my customers," she said firmly, pouring another tankard and placing it before the mysterious figure. "Keep your peace, and enjoy a quiet drink."**

**Dean turned and studied the man. A seaman, by his boots, his dress and his weapons, though his face was hidden in the recesses of a hood. "And who might you be, then? Don't skulk back there, sirrah, show yourself!"**

**The figure made another sound that resembled a growl.**

"**Andrew," Ellen began warningly, "What have I told you? I beg pardon for him," she turned back to Dean and his crewmates, "He is a sailor like yourselves, a ship's Master of long experience, but he has been sorely wounded, and his experience has left him… touched."**

"**Touched?" It came out as a sharp bark of amusement. "Touched, is it? Is that what you'd call it?" The stranger stood, and made his way into the circle of yellowed lantern light. "If it's the **_**She-Wolf**_** you seek, Captain, then I can tell you that she's real," he said. "Aye, she's as real as you or me or your damned Puritan standing there."**

**Castiel reached out to put a calming hand on Dean's arm as his Captain reached for his cutlass. "If you have intelligence of this vessel, we would be grateful for all detail you would vouchsafe," he said in a calm and polite tone. "My Captain fears for the safety of his brother, who, it is reported, was abducted by the crew of the **_**She-Wolf**_** after his own vessel was disabled."**

"**And well he might," the man Ellen named as Andrew chuckled unkindly, "For if the **_**She-Wolf**_** has him, he is seized on the direct orders of her captain."**

"**Wherefore?" demanded Dean, his hand straying to the hilt of his weapon again, "What is his design? Does he seek crew members, or captives to sell for Barbary gold?"**

"**Neither," replied the mysterious Andrew. "For the captain is a woman, and if your brother is a young and handsome man like you, Captain, she has taken him for one thing, and one thing only: she seeks a mate."**

**Dean gawped at the fellow, then laughed out loud. "A mate, you say?" he guffawed, as Bobby chuckled and Castiel smiled behind his hand, while Ellen rolled her eyes and muttered a prayer for patience, "She has taken him as a **_**mate**_**? Well, that should be a sight to see indeed! For I would pay good coin to see a woman attempt to force herself upon my brother. Indeed, I would pay a woman good coin to see a her force herself upon my brother, even a rampant pirate queen, for he is shy and virginal as a maid, and it would benefit him mightily to spend an evening in congress with a woman, and I tell him so as oft as I may…"**

"**She is not just a woman," Andrew snarled, "It is true that she is deformed and hideous, scarred and monstrous."**

"**Ah, Ellen is right," Dean wiped tears of genuine amusement from his eyes. "Poor fellow, you are touched. Here," he placed a heavy silver coin on the bar, "Drink on me tonight. And tell me more of your fabulous tale. You are more amusing than the most canny playwrights, and their fancy recitations. Come, most entertaining fellow," Dean seated himself, "I need cheering tonight. Tell me the tale of how you come to know so much about this beastly she-captain."**

"**There be not much to tell," growled Andrew, stepping into the light, and pulling back his hood.**

**The others gasped as the lantern's mantle revealed a face that had once been handsome, but had been disfigured as if by monstrous claws: the scars ran the length of his face, passing through the milky dead eye and into the long golden hair just starting to grey.**

"**I know this," Andrew seemed to take amusement from the shock on his audience's faces, "Because I was once her captive and I displeased her." He pushed the coin across the bar, towards Ellen's white face. "But you have offered to buy me drink, and so it is a fair trade that I shall tell you what I can."**

Sam looked up from the screen and stared at his brother.

"Give me that back!" Dean hissed, snatching at the laptop. "I'm busy! You stick to figuring out whether that spell is actually gonna do anything."

"Uh," Sam stuttered, "I think that might be a yes."

* * *

Ohhh, not good, as a Jedi character in a laughably disappointing movie once said. What the hell is Alfie-Con playing at? Send reviews, because Reviews Are The Long Pointy Sticks Of Life With Which To Poke Plot Bunnies Into Further Dictation!*

*Pointy sticks can also be used to urge Winchesters to more enthusiastic scantily-clad dancing, but there's none of that just now, so stick with prodding the plot bunny.


	24. Chapter 23

…Well, you go attempting to invoke the creative urge from a number of pantheons, none of which are particularly pertinent to your own life situation, and what do you expect but positively purple pirate prose?

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

On the last day of the conference, Sam sat scanning the latest offerings from the participants – including Dean – as RJ, who was wearing his Dean Winchester cosplay outfit of his tiny leather jacket and a tee reading 'I WUV HUGS', sat in Dean's lap, waving and babbling cheerfully to anyone passing by. From time to time, as a particularly well-endowed fem interpretation of a character from Carver Edlund's books went past, he let out an appreciative cry of "Titi!"

"Oh yeah, it worked," Sam mused, scanning the chapters posted since the spell working. "But how?"

"Are you still goin' on about that spell?" asked Dean, peering around his squirming son and tapping furiously at the keyboard. "You're like a terrier with a rat. Or a lawyer with an evasive witness. Or a fangirl with a Sam Winchester plushie…"

"A what?"

"A Sam Winchester plushie," Dean repeated. "I saw her yesterday. I mean, really, it didn't look anything like you, but given the length of the hair and the plaid shirt, it must've been you. Because Dean Winchester does not do plushie. She was totally cuddling you, dude."

"Given a choice between being a plushie and being in some of the slash fics written here, I think I could learn to live with stuffed toy," muttered Sam.

"At least the writing's improved," Dean grinned. "Anyway, the thing is, the spell worked, and there wasn't anythin' evil about it – does it matter how?"

"Of course it matters," Sam snapped, "This is a spell that shouldn't have been cast. It shouldn't have been castable! I mean, really? Three different pantheons? Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get the attention, let alone the favour, of a Hindu goddess if you're not actually Hindu? It would be like you wanting to borrow a book from the Library of Congress."

Dean paused and looked up. "Do they archive _Busty Asian Beauties_?"

"Jerk," Sam looked around – there were plaid shirts, trench coats and leather jackets everywhere. There were even canine characters: a Rottweiler puppy carrying a blue squeaky toy, a Border Collie wearing a blue tie, a Labrador with a scruffy wig, a Bull Terrier with a 'Samulet' around his neck, a grizzled old Bulldog wearing a trucker's cap – there was even a German Shepherd with long blonde hair added. "I guess at least the dogs don't look out of place, there are lots here today." They had brought 'Lennie' and 'Lara' with them, in the hope of using their noses for evil shit if anything should happen on the last day, and the two fluffy Cockapoos were working the crowd for pats, tails wagging and soulful eyes gazing up adoringly. "Oh, hey, look, that German Shepherd, it's an actual canine!Ronnie."

"That aint Ronnie, that's Andrew."

"Huh? Why?"

"Well, look at how happy his face looks, he's smilin' at everybody and waggin' his tail. If that was supposed to be Ronnie, he'd be snarling, and tryin' to tear legs off."

"When she finds out you dosed her with YiaYia Panagopoulos's potion, I hope she tears your leg off," Sam scowled.

"She'll thank me for it," Dean smiled breezily, "Make sure you upvote me!"

"Huh?"

"Upvote me!" repeated Dean, beaming, "I think I might be in with a chance for one of the prizes! People just love my story!"

"So, the writing may have improved, but the audience hasn't," Sam commented. "Does the word 'florid' mean anything to you?"

"Is it something to do with bouquets and stuff?"

Sam humphed, and took the mirror from his pocket. "Mirror mirror, on the tray, rate Dean's story: yay or nay?"

_Though his ego it might squash  
That tale buckles with the swash_

"But you said it had improved!" complained Dean.

"Well, from rock bottom the only way is up."

"Bitch," sniffed Dean, returning to his typing. "Just for that, I'm gonna make you walk outta the captain's cabin and past everybody, buck naked."

"What?"

"I'm up to the bit where you've woken up and you're talkin' to Ronnie," Dean elaborated, "And you're kinda rude, 'cause you're a Navy officer with a stuck up your ass, and you think she's the doctor's servant, and, and," an evil grin bloomed on his face. "Tell you what, I'm gonna make Becky the cabin girl on the _She-Wolf_…."

"If you're gonna make me a werewolf pirate, the least you can do is have me tear Becky's head off the very first time I shapeshift," Sam wailed.

"Can't talk ficwriting," beamed Dean, "Okay, now I'm getting to the bit where you get locked in the brig with Gabriel. You're naked."

"You freak."

"He's naked."

"Oh, God."

"And just to really mess with your head, Ronnie got naked before you left the cabin. You just go no idea where you're supposed to look."

"I refuse to be locked up anywhere with Gabriel! Especially naked!"

"Oh, but they loved that bit, just think, with my new improved writing, they'll go nuts for it!"

"You're the one who's going nuts!"

"You want any tattoos? You're a sailor, after all."

"Why do you want to know if I want tattoos?"

"Well, what's the point of havin' you walk around buck naked unless there's some sort of description of you?"

"Jesus Christ, what is this? The oestrogen is starting to affect you! You do remember that you're not actually a woman, don't you?"

"It's okay, bro, I'm on my way to save you, the _Impala_ will set sail as soon as heroic Captain Dean figures out how to find the _She-Wolf_."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better, is it?"

"But not before my fans have upvoted me. For GWN."

"GWN?"

"Gratuitous Winchester Nudity, bro. They love it!"

Sam glared resentfully at his brother. "Fuck, you've really drunk the Kool-Aid, haven't you? I can't wait until you're male again."

"What, so I stop writing fanfics?"

"Well, that too, but it was mostly so I can kick you in the balls for this."

"Oooooh, now who's feeling the oestrogen rage? You getting hormonal, Sammy? Should we be layin' in a supply of Midol and hot water bottles and certain sanitary products?"

"I hate you."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Leaving her bestie to her melodramatic literary lunacy, Samantha took Lara and went to mingle with the milling conference-goers, exchanging greetings with some of the women she'd already become acquainted with, and running into the man who had been cosplaying as Ronnie on the first day.

"You look great!" she assured him.

"My sister did my make-up," he admitted sheepishly, "It feels like she put it on with a trowel, but we discussed it, and decided that when she's feeling human, Ronnie doesn't have a five o'clock shadow."

"Uh, no, no, I guess not," Samantha agreed, as Lara wagged her tail and lifted a paw.

"Oh, she's just adorable!" enthused 'Ronnie', "What a beautiful girl!"

"I feel like I should've dressed her up," Samantha admitted, "All the other dogs here are cosplaying. I guess I could just give her a squeaky toy, and say she's fem!Lars."

'Ronnie' smiled. "I hate to break it to you, but as three-quarters Hellhound, your gorgeous girl here is about as convincing as I am as Ronnie."

"You don't know how right you are," she muttered.

Her mingling took her towards the admin tables, where Fiona and some of the other organisers were tapping at laptops or fussing over things on the tables. "Oh, hey, Samantha!" called Fiona, "Oh, who's that with you?"

"This is Lara." she replied, as the completely-unconvincing part-Hellhound deployed the charm, eliciting a series of coos and awwwws. "So, did the, uh, you know, the working…"

"It worked perfectly!" declared Rachel, beaming, "Have you seen some of the writing submitted since yesterday?"

"Yes, yes I have," Samantha tried to keep the exasperation out of her voice.

"The voting has gone nuts!" confirmed another woman, consulting a screen, "We'll have plenty of interest for the prizes!"

"Uh, prizes?" echoed Samantha.

"Oh, absolutely," Fiona beamed, "They're not much, just tokens, really," she indicated the table, "To give to the people who have really made an effort, and improved, and really impressed the conference-goers. That's why we're tallying the voting in real time, so we know which stories are most popular!"

Samantha looked at the prize items laid out on the table: they were a series of intricately crocheted doilies. She smiled. "Oh, I get it, the doilies, just like what Dean used to summon Jimi Senior!"

"And George the cat!" grinned Rachel.

"Wow, they're really something," Samantha commented, taking an interest in the dense and complicated lacework. "Somebody knows their filet crochet. It's so delicate, I just don't have the patience for it."

Lara pushed forward to sniff at one of the doilies, and Samantha put a hand on her collar. "Oh, hey, don't you go slobbering on the prizes, that's just…"

She paused, as a sound came to her ears. Not through the air, though – up through her shoes. She recognised it at once.

_It was the growl that Lars used to alert a member of his pack that something had stirred his Hellhound heritage to alertness, something had caught the notice of a Hunter's dog, something wicked that way came..._

_Something had grabbed the attention of his nose for evil shit._

"So, uh, who made these?" she asked, casually pulling out her phone to get some shots and stepping in front of Lara whilst hoping that nobody saw the faint whirls of red stir in the dog's eyes, "They are absolute works of art."

"Oh, the conference organiser provided them," Fiona replied.

Samantha's head shot up. "The organiser? I thought you ladies were the organisers?"

"We're the local committee, yes," Fiona confirmed, "But we do the gruntwork – the organiser got us the venue, provided the funding, and provided the prizes."

"She gave me the spell, too," Rachel added, "She's really good! She was so pleased to find a practitioner of The Craft so we could do the working – she would've been with us, but she said she had to put the finishing touches on the prizes, so they were just perfect."

"Well, she's very talented," Samantha smiled, those slam-dancing armoured gerbils bouncing around in their buckets again, "What a shame I never got to meet her."

"Oh, I think she likes to stay in the background," Fiona suggested, "She's a middle-aged lady, and she doesn't like to push herself forward. But she's passionate about fan fiction! Her writing is really good, and she organises these events to encourage others to improve their own."

"It's really good," Rachel nodded, "I mean, I find the idea of Crobby just, well, squicky, but when she writes it, it's just a really good gen story, you know?"

"She… she writes Crobby?" Samantha tried not to let herself gawp. "And it's good?"

"Check it out if you don't believe us," Fiona said, "She even knows Latin! At least, she writes it into her stories. I got no idea if it's really Latin, but it looks convincing."

"Oh, yeah, I know the ones you mean," Samantha made herself sound enthusiastic, "She's great! There's grammar! There's spelling! There's English expression! Punctuation as far as the eye can see! In fact, I think I need to read some more right now, to get inspired to work on my own writing! See you later!"

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Pulling the growling Cockapoo away from the table before the dog could implement 'her' inherited strategy for dealing with all sorts of dangerous occult items, which consisted of eating it and letting a Hellhound digestion defuse it, Sam headed back to where Dean was sitting, pulling a face as RJ batted enthusiastically at a small cup of frothed milk.

"That damned barista," growled Dean, "You got her conditioned! She gave me this sissy frothy stuff for RJ and I didn't even ask for it!"

"Faff!" enthused RJ, sticking his fingers into the delicious frothy goodness.

"Sounds like he did," Sam grunted, opening his laptop. "But right now, frothy milk is the least of our worries." He explained what 'Lara' had found. "So, it wasn't Rachel who pulled the spell together at all. It was somebody else, this mysterious 'organiser', who's provided the funding to get all these fanfic writers together, and has provided prizes that have set off the nose for evil shit."

"You think this 'organiser' is the fugly we're looking for?" Dean was all business.

"Sounding like it," Sam replied, "But I don't have much to go on – a 'middle-aged woman' who actually writes pretty well, could be anybody. Could be anything." He ran a hand over his face. "What does it want? It gets women together, to write and to socialise, then gets some to kill each other."

"Siren?" suggested Dean. "With a weird MO, admittedly."

"But why go to the trouble, the expense, of organising these conferences?" Sam wondered. "There's hundreds of attendees; you might get a handful turn murderous. That's a damned inefficient way to go about it. And then there are those doilies, the prizes." He pulled out his cell. "I got a couple of photos, but they don't immediately bring anything to mind. Damn, if only we were at Bobby's, I could look in his library."

"He's still incommunicado," Dean reminded his brother, "Dealin' with that nasty Sumerian sumbitch. So, we're it, dude." He paused to intercept a small sticky hand that was about to give him a beard of froth. "Hey, little guy, I got enough trouble with the chin hairs, don't you go addin' to it."

"The doilies are involved in all this," Sam stated, "Whatever it is, the doilies are important. We have to figure out how."

"So, let's steal the doilies," Dean shrugged. "We get hold of 'em, nobody else can use 'em. Or be affected by 'em."

"Can't," Sam humphed, "They're with the organising committee." With a determined look, he started up his laptop. "But I think you're right. We do have to get hold of 'em. We'll just have to do it the same way as normal people. So, get on with your pirate-tastic tale, Madam Deanna ImpalaDude. You gotta win a doily for Most Popular AU Story, and me," he opened a new window, "I gotta get the doily for Most Popular Self-Insert."

* * *

Denizens of the Jimiverse may remember that George the cat showed up in 'Nine To Five' after Dean did a faux-summoning with the wrong doily. Sam swears he summoned the cat; Dean swears he didn't. From time to time, they still argue about it.

And for those Denizens who want to read the entirety of Dean's Totally Awesome Jimiverse Genderbent AU Ye Olde Swashbuckling Pirate Werewolf Chasing Adventure, it's one of those things that might be written in its entirety – but in another reality.

So, what is setting fanfic writers to kill each other? Feed Alfie-Con reviews, and let's find out!


	25. Chapter 24

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

Like probing at a sore tooth although it caused pain, Sam opened a window to read the latest offering from Dean's pirate AU saga.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

As Sam Winchester slowly clawed his way back to wakefulness, he became fuzzily aware of two things: he was not dead, he was not in his own tiny bunk aboard the _Stanford,_ and everything ached more than was really necessary.

Three things, then.

That, however, happened to be about as much as his fogged brain could cope with at once, so he let himself slide back into darkness…

Some time later, he gingerly opened one eye, and tried, somewhat unsuccessfully, to focus. The familiar slow rocking of deep water let him know he was on board a ship, and the cabin, which was ridiculously spacious compared to the cramped nook he shared with another young lieutenant on his own vessel, was neatly squared away. Gingerly, he tried turning his head, but the pain that shot through his shoulder forced a hissing grimace from him.

"Ah, it lives!" said a low accented voice with some amusement. "Welcome back to the land of the living, lad."

Closing his eyes and gritting his teeth against the pain, Sam made himself turn his head, and tried to focus on the indistinct figure. "Doct…" his voice rasped, so he swallowed and tried again. "Doctor Douglas?"

The voice chuckled again. "I'm no Lowlander, lad," it said, "But I'll overlook it this one time, since 'tis a fact that you English cannae tell us apart."

Sam blinked, trying to clear his vision. The figure resolved into a tired-looking but smiling man, mid-fifties perhaps, wearing dress that suggested he was a gentleman, but not a seaman. "Fear not, I am qualified, Aberdeen and Edinburgh," he added. "Och, now stop that," his face became concerned and he reached out a hand as Sam tried to sit up but then collapsed back to the bed with a gasp of pain, "Ye're healing fast, but I'm no miracle worker." He turned to a small sideboard, and poured something into a tankard. "Here," he held the cup for Sam, "Drink this."

Sam was about to protest, demand to know what was happening, when a wonderful scent hit his nose; the liquid in the cup tasted even better than it smelled, and he gulped it down, before letting his head fall back with a sigh.

"That is… a most wonderful drink," he managed, his voice rough, "Is it a spiced cordial, from the Indies?"

"It is medicinal, and will help you heal," the man – the doctor? – said firmly. "With herbal ingredients. Including laudanum. So get some sleep now."

To Sam, that seemed like a capital idea…

When next he woke, he still felt disoriented, but more clear-headed and less like he'd been keel-hauled. The cabin pulled into focus more quickly, and he was able to raise himself on one elbow. A heavily built man in the garb of a common seaman sat at the table, working intently on something. A name, Sam thought, there was a name. If he could just remember it…

"Doctor Douglas?" he asked tentatively, alarmed to hear the rasping quality of his own voice, "Doctor… no, it wasn't him…"

The voice was even more of a shock, for it was that of a woman. "Well, you have the right country, if nothing else," she said, standing up. "But it is Doctor McGregor who has attended you these past two watches. He has other duties also, and has left me to watch you."

Sam blinked. "Why, you are no mariner, you are a woman!"

There was a genuine laugh. "Neptune's balls, we have a sharp one here."

Sam frowned. "Well, 'tis clear you are a woman, but you are no lady," he commented disapprovingly.

"That I am not." She turned towards him, and he let out an audible gasp.

It was indeed a woman, but no beauty she: middle-aged, with a muscled build, and a face that had not been attractive before it was extensively scarred down the left side. Nonetheless, it managed to produce a brilliant smile.

"So, Lieutenant, do you have a name?" she asked, appearing to take amusement from his shock and discomfiture.

"I could ask you the same thing, madam," he shot back, not liking her tone at all; she addressed him in far too familiar a fashion than was appropriate, for he was an officer in His Majesty's Navy and she was some doctor's maidservant – and they had most certainly not been properly introduced at all.

That made her smile again. "Oh, few people use my name," she told him, "Mostly they just refer to me as The Old Woman. Except for Doctor McGregor."

"And what does he call you?" asked Sam icily.

"Oh, 'Idiot Child', usually," she shrugged. "Amongst other things in his native tongue, which I will not translate in the presence of a gentleman such as yourself." He winced as a jab of pain shot through his shoulder, and at once she was at his side, the smile gone and replaced with concern. "Lie down, please," she continued in a completely different tone, "You were badly wounded, and though you are recovering your injuries may yet give you some pain. I will pour you more houndswort."

"Is that what it is called?" he asked as she turned to the pitcher that was still on the sideboard. "I remember… yes, Doctor Douglas poured it for me… no, not Douglas, Doctor McGregor, for Doctor Douglas is ship's surgeon aboard the _Stanford_…

Like a cannonball punching through a hull, recollection came crashing back onto him.

_The look-out spotting the lone vessel flying no flag, and the captain of the Chevrolet ordering that she be taken, then beating to quarters and running out the guns, the ship turning and trying to run but she was low in the water with cargo, the two men-of-war manoeuvred to steal her wind, closing in and preparing to board, Stanford putting a volley of cannon into her stern, then with no way to escape she'd turned to fight, presenting her broadside to the fast-closing warships…_

_Then all Hell had broken loose._

_The strange vessel had fired two salvos in the time a well-drilled Navy crew might manage one on a good day, then Stanford's own guns replied, and as the vessels closed there was the chaos of battle, gunsmoke obscuring nearly everything and the stink of blood and bowels, the angry cries and dying screams as the hulls crashed together, then the shouts of anger and bloodlust turned to horror as His Majesty's men found that they were not fighting against men, but, but, it was impossible, then there was a shriek of grapeshot and the world exploded into agony…_

Pain shot through his shoulder as he emptied the pitiful contents of his stomach into the chamber pot beside the bunk, the scarred woman holding his arm and keeping his hair back from the bilious mess.

"The _Chevrolet_," he sputtered, coughing and wheezing and choking on the taste of bile, "My vessel, the _Stanford_…"

"I am sorry," she said quietly, wiping at his face with a damp cloth as if he was a child, "I am so sorry. They are both lost."

"Their crews?" He heard his own voice break.

Her face was sorrowful. "Lost," she repeated. "The fighting was ruthless, and bloody. Those we could, we committed to the sea, decently shrouded. Dr McGregor read the Burial Service." She smiled. "You, we nearly missed. You were badly wounded, and caught under a tangle of rigging, and if it hadn't been for the good doctor, you might have gone down with your ship."

Sam lay back, his head spinning and a cold clenched knot of horror in his chest. The _Stanford_ and the _Chevrolet_, both lost. With their crews. It was impossible to accept, impossible to believe.

_they were not fighting against men_

Near two thousand men, some of them his friends, gone. Two warships had closed with what looked like a corsair, and

_they were not fighting against men_

now, they were just… gone.

"Who is Dean?" asked the woman, breaking into his thoughts.

His eye's stung at the mention of his brother's name, and he told himself sternly that an officer of His Majesty's Navy did not cry for his big brother, no matter how bad the situation was. "That is my brother's name," he replied in a tightly controlled voice. "Why do you ask me about that name?"

"You called for him in your sleep," she replied, with another small smile.

"Well, he is not here now," Sam told her crossly, "And you might inform me, madam, where exactly 'here' is."

Her eyebrows rose. "Indeed? You would converse with me after all, though I am clearly no lady and we have not been introduced?" Her chuckle was amused, but held no rancour as she stepped back and offered him a bow. "Veronica Aoire", she said, "A woman, but no lady, as you have so intelligently determined."

"Era?" Sam repeated, trying to reproduce the unfamiliar word. "Irish, then."

"On my father's side," she smiled, "And you pronounce it well. For an Englishman. And how would you have me address you? 'Lieutenant' seems so terribly stuffy and forward, and truly, you do not appear to me to be the foppish type, of which the Navy seems to have so many."

"It would be appropriate, under the circumstances," he told her primly.

There was a flare of the hot temper for which her father's people were notorious. "Judas priest, man, will you have me scatter rose petals before you as you walk?" she demanded. "I know your name is Winchester." From the sideboard, she took a small object and slapped it down on the bed beside him. "But I tell you, give me a name I can use, you thunderin' _amadan_, or I'll choose one for you, and I suspect you will not like it!"

Sam stared at the item she had given him. It was his own, his most prized possession amongst the meagre belongings that he took to sea. A folding knife, small and plain but with a blade of good Toledo steel. It was a present from his brother, given to him when he left their father's vessel to take his first voyage as a midshipman. 'S. WINCHESTER' was carefully carved into the wood, and Sam treasured it, thinking of the time and effort that Dean, who had not taken to scholarship as easily as his little brother, would have spent making the knife a special reminder for him to carry always.

At the thought of his big brother, the anger went out of him. "Samuel," he replied. "Lieutenant Samuel Winchester, of His Majesty's Royal Navy."

"Well then, Lieutenant Samuel Winchester," Veronica replied, pouring more of the delicious medication into a tankard, "I would say it was a pleasure to meet you, but under the grievously sad circumstances of our meeting, I shall drink to your health." She poured a second tankard for herself, and raised it to him. "Bonum sanitatem."

He lowered his own drink – it really was most delicious, especially given that it was a medicinal preparation. "You speak Latin?" he asked in surprise.

The smile she turned on held the same childish delight as the most cheeky grin from one of the _Stanford_'s young powder monkeys. "Oh! Denuone Latine loquebar? Me ineptum." _(Was I speaking Latin again? I am so foolish.)_

"I had not thought to find an educated woman upon a merchant vessel," Sam mused.

"Oh, I am not at all educated," she laughed, "I am as ignorant of learned men's concerns as the bowfish that run before us in the warmer latitudes. Should you wish to practise Greek, then Iain – Doctor McGregor – will be pleased to converse with you, and may even lend you some of his books. He will speak with you of the most recent theories in medicine and natural philosophy. Nay, some might suggest that he will speak at you. In detail. At length." Veronica's face took on a stoic expression. "It was the express wish and command of my grandmother, my father's mother, that I learn Latin," she answered. "She was a pious woman, as fearsome as she was loving, and none would gainsay her."

"You are a most surprising person, Mistress Aoire," Sam commented, finishing his own excellent drink, "In your dress, your manners, and now your speech. Had I not seen you close to, and spoken to you, I might have mistaken you for a man."

"You would not be the first to make such an error," she replied easily, and he thought he detected a minute undertone of threat, "Do not distress yourself, for I take no offence at that. My garb and my manner are practical, which is most appropriate on board a ship at sea, as you are no doubt aware yourself as a seagoing officer."

"Indeed," sighed Sam, trying not to think of the difficulty of keeping the more tiresome parts of his uniform clean enough and white enough and starched enough to pass the senior officers' most stern assessments. "Such an approach has much to recommend it. If you are not an officer, or if you are a pirate."

"Indeed," she echoed him with a small smile.

A shadow crossed Sam's face; speaking of clothing suddenly brought a most uncomfortable aspect of his situation to his notice.

"Speaking of such matters," Sam continued, his face flushing ever so slightly at even having to raise the subject obliquely with a woman, "May I speak to your doctor again?"

"He does have other duties," Veronica reminded him, "Is there something I may do for you?"

Sam felt the blood rush to his face. "Not decently," he stated firmly. "May I speak to his manservant?"

"He has an assistant, but he is with the doctor," she replied. "Truly, if there is anything concerning you, I will help if I can."

He fixed her with what he hoped was an authoritative gaze. "Madam, I should not discuss the matter with his maidservant, it would not be seemly."

Veronica's eyebrows shot up. "That should present no difficulty," she suggested, "As I am myself entirely unseemly. Iain certainly tells me so regularly, and in a number of different languages."

"Madam," Sam felt his ears begin to burn and his temper begin to rise, "It is not something to be discussed by myself with you."

She gave him a long, level look, then nudged the chamber pot with one foot out to where he could see it. "I shall leave you alone for five minutes," she said quietly.

"It's not that!" he snapped, ignoring the sting of pain from his shoulder as he sat up, pulling the bedclothes around himself, becoming ever more acutely aware of the mortifying situation in which he found himself.

"Well, what on Earth is it?" Veronica shot back, appearing both perplexed and annoyed. "Spit it out, man, I too have other duties requiring my attention."

Sam took a deep breath. "It is the matter of… my attire," he said.

"What of it?"

"I cannot help but notice that I do not have any!" he burst out.

"Well, of course you don't have any," Veronica actually rolled her eyes Heavenward, "You were struck by splinters! Your garments were shredded, along with the flesh beneath them! They were blood-soaked rags, fit for nothing but feeding the sharks."

"I should not even be alone with you in this condition," he stated.

She cocked her head and stared at him. "How can you be alone, if you are here with me?" she asked.

"That is not… it is not proper," he said through clenched teeth, "For a man to be in a state of… undress, with a woman he does not even know."

"Have we not introduced ourselves?" she seemed genuinely puzzled by his discomfiture.

Sam's temper broke. "Madam, I am stark naked!" he roared.

"Of course you are," she agreed amiably, "After all, I could not have washed you if you were not."

Sam's eyes bugged as he spluttered, unable to find a reply.

"Good grief, man, you were covered in blood, and soot and Lord knows what shit and you were dying!" she snapped out in exasperation, "How was the doctor to tend your wounds if he could not see them for the mess?"

Sam let out a groan of sheer embarrassment. The very thought of being stripped and washed by this most peculiar woman was just too hideous to contemplate.

"I do not understand why you should be so distressed," Veronica sniffed.

"The doctor was present, then?" he said in a small voice. "We were properly chaperoned at all times?"

"I was not concerned with that," she told him trenchantly, "For you were in no state to attempt to force yourself upon me. I would not be so vain as to flatter myself that you would be inspired to try."

"What? No! I mean…" he let out a defeated groan. "It is not proper."

"It was necessary," she told him briskly. "Besides, it is not as though you have anything to be ashamed of," she indicated one of the tattoos on his broad chest, "And I was most impressed by the quality of your tattooing, your artist was certainly well accomplished, especially the one on your…"

Sam let out a strangled noise of horror, and she relented.

"I am sorry, but truly, it was necessary, to save your life." Veronica's smile was sympathetic as she returned to the table, and held up some cloth. "I have been working on clothing for you – you are taller than anyone on board except for Siak, and he rarely bothers himself with clothing, being from African lands where it is not common – but they are not completed yet. Never fear, Lieutenant, propriety is observed at all times aboard this vessel. The captain insists upon it, and it is the crew's inclination."

"An unusual crew, then," commented Sam, thinking of the bawdiness of the rude fellows that had comprised the Navy crews he had sailed with. "But I thank you for your efforts. As soon as I may be decently covered, I would fain meet with your captain, and offer him my thanks, for truly, it seems he has saved my life." He paused. "What of my boots? They were a good pair, most serviceable."

"We have a crew member who was a cobbler," she told him, "And he was set to see what might be done with them…"

She was interrupted by the sound of running feet, and a younger woman burst into the cabin.

"I have his boots!" she announced gaily, "Martin said they were… oh," she paused, staring at Sam. "Oh, you're awake!"

Veronica visibly clenched her teeth and her fists. "Becky, how many times have I explained to you the convention of knocking, and waiting to be admitted?" she demanded.

"But you said this was important!" The girl Becky didn't take her eyes from Sam. "Hello! I'm Becky! I have your boots!" She held out the footwear for him to see, then put them down and bobbed a curtsey for him. He turned a bewildered look to Veronica.

"Becky is the cabin girl," she explained, "Via a set of circumstances that nobody can explain to me satisfactorily."

"Because I am so useful!" Becky's smile was beaming. Sam clutched the covers to himself.

In the voice of somebody holding onto her patience, Veronica went on. "Becky, this is Lieutenant Samuel Winchester of the Royal Navy. It would behove you to conduct yourself modestly in the presence of a gentleman."

"Oh, I will, I will," Becky replied fervently, sliding closer to Sam. "Good heavens, he looks so… firm…"

Sam clutched the sheet a little higher as Veronica's hand shot out to grab Becky's before the girl's twitching fingers could make contact.

"Madam, you are forward!" Sam yapped disapprovingly.

"You have no idea," growled Veronica, "Becky, I will say this once, and once only. Lieutenant Winchester is the captain's guest, and you will accord him all respect as such."

"His is very handsome, isn't he?" Becky was relentless and completely indiscreet in her admiration.

"If you do not conduct yourself as is befitting," Veronica added, "I will see you swing from the main yard myself."

Becky's face fell momentarily, then she brightened up immediately. "It is late in the afternoon," she said, "He will not be able to stay here, will he?"

Sam shot Veronica a questioning look; she actually bared her teeth and growled at Becky, who let out a little yip, and shrank backward.

"No, he will not," Veronica said in a low voice, "And when he moves, you will make yourself scarce, girl, or you will answer to me for your complete lack of anything approaching manners. D'you understand? Just nod."

Becky nodded.

"Good. Now, go away, and do not let me see you, lest I be motivated to forget the important details of the Fifth Commandment."

With a small squeak, Becky scuttled from the cabin.

Sam watched her go. "That is… this vessel has a cabin _girl_?"

Veronica sighed heavily. "I am afraid so. It is truly ridiculous – she is truly ridiculous, do you not agree?"

"And the captain tolerates this, permits her to stay on board?"

"Lord knows why," Veronica shrugged. "All good sense suggests that the wisest and most agreeable course would be to put her off at the next port. Or simply toss her overboard, that would be an equally satisfactory solution. But we are a vessel of waifs and strays, Lieutenant Winchester – perhaps the captain cannot bear to turn away another who has nowhere else to go."

"What did she mean about me not staying here?" he asked, looking around, "This is the captain's cabin, is it not? Does he require his quarters back? I will of course leave at once, if you will find me a bunk, or a hammock, wherever I may be accommodated…"

"It is not that," Veronica sighed, and turned to face him squarely with a serious mien. "But you must move. For your own safety, and that of others, you must be moved to the brig."

Sam gawped at her, but saw from her face that she was not attempting to turn a poor jest. "The… the brig? But why? Am I to be held a prisoner?"

"Not a prisoner, no," she assured him, "But confined you must be, for tonight, at least."

Sam stared right back at her.

"I do not see why. I am injured, I have no weapons, I certainly have no clothes…" his voice petered out in the face of her stare.

"There are things about this vessel that you must know," she said firmly, "Things that you will be told, aye, as soon as it is safe to do so, but for now, I must ask you to take my word for that. Lieutenant, you must follow me below to the brig, where you will be confined tonight."

Sam scoffed half in disbelief. "I can hardly go like this," he indicated himself. "Completely undressed."

Her stare did not leave his eyes. "You must come just as you are," she stipulated.

"I shall not!" he snapped.

"Oh, you shall," she told him grimly. "If you can, you shall walk on your own two feet. If you cannot, you will be carried. If you will not, you will be dragged. I offer you this choice, and suggest you make it quickly," she glanced out of the window, "For I was about to raise the matter with you when Becky burst in, and we must go now."

"Dragged, is it?" he smiled at her. "By whom?"

"By me, if necessary," she told him without hint of humour.

Nonetheless, he could not help but laugh out loud. "Mistress Aoire, you are strongly built for a woman, aye, and compared to many men I have met, but though I am injured, I do not think…"

His voice faltered as she stepped close to him, and gave his a look that was…

It was impossible to describe, but it was a stare that was redolent with authority – it went to the deepest recesses of his mind, and told him in no uncertainly that here was a person who would be obeyed, who must be obeyed, and who would brook no insurrection.

"You will come with me now," she growled in a low threatening voice, "Or I will twist your ear, and drag you there myself like a badly behaved puppy. Do you understand?"

Sam blinked, and she was suddenly smiling pleasantly at him once more. "I understand how very confronting this must be for you," she said reassuringly. "If it will make you feel less threatened, I shall undress also to accompany you."

Sam's eyes nearly bugged out of his head. "WHAT?"

Veronica kicked off her boots, and began fiddling with the lacing at the front of her vest.

"Madam!" Sam snapped in anxiety, "What in God's name are you… stop that!"

To his utter horror, she shed her clothing as easily and quickly as he would put off a coat, and stood before him, completely naked and unashamed, the tattoos showing against her skin giving her an unwomanly and heathen appearance that only made the entire awful situation worse.

"Oh, you hoyden!" he shrieked, closing his eyes. "Wretched woman! I thought the captain insisted upon propriety!"

When Veronica spoke, it was with considerable dignity. "I like to hope that I, like all the crew, are capable of modest behaviour, no matter what state of dress we may be in."

"You dare speak of modesty!" Sam didn't even dare peek. "What manner of ridicule is this?"

"No ridicule, Lieutenant," she replied serenely, "But a demonstration that you have nothing to fear."

"You intend to have me marched to the brig stark naked, and you say I have nothing to fear?" he growled.

"Indeed," she confirmed, "That is why I shall accompany you in the same state. Come, sir," he felt a hand slap gently against his uninjured arm, "We will make poor progress if you will not open your eyes. Can you walk?"

Sam considered his options. If he was to be paraded naked like a slave in a Roman commander's triumph, he would do it with all the dignity he could muster, and give nobody the satisfaction of seeing his shame. "I can walk," he snapped, swinging his legs carefully out of the bunk. "Be sure I shall complain to the captain of this wretched vessel. What is the name of this ship, whose crew is complemented by demented women?"

"By all means complain to the captain," she said over her shoulder. "And voice your complaints about the complement of the _She-Wolf_. This way."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam sat back and sighed; whoever had devised the spell, they had certainly given it plenty of juice, and he was worried about where the excess overflow might go.

Into Dean's story, probably, he thought glumly, because if nothing else, it was overflowing with excess.

* * *

The plot bunny dictating Dean's story is probably the most ridiculous raconteurial rodent I have ever encountered - its name is probably something equally ridiculous. I'm leaning towards Dirty Miranda Flint. She is truly ghastly.


	26. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Sam frowned thoughtfully at the document open before him, and read back over it.

_**Wake up**_**, I told myself, trying to convince myself that I was not afraid of what was obviously a nightmare, **_**Wake up, wake up now, it's just a dream, so wake up now, before he pulls the trigger…**_

"**Hey!" the snap of his voice made me jump. "Answer me! What are you?"**

_**Apart from shitting myself with fear?**_** observed a treacherous little voice in the back of my head, the one I'd tried so hard to ignore for as long as I could remember. **_**That's probably a sensible reaction; this guy isn't kidding. You do know he's real, right? That this is real? You **__**know**__** it. You'd better answer him, he's shot things that look prettier than you for less than this…**_

"**I…" My mouth had gone dry, and all I could look at was the gun; the bore looked enormous, a cannon, ready to blow my brains out if I didn't come up with an explanation for the Hunter, the fucking Hunter, I was sprawled in front of. "I… I don't…"**

…_**And your brains will splatter just like Mr Benson, remember him, how his head burst like a ripe melon, you know that because you **__**saw**__** it…**_

**The smile that spread across Dean Winchester's face sent a chill down my spine; vaguely I wished that Simone was there with me to see it, because if she had, she might've stopped writing those stupid stories where she bumped into him, and became a sassy, kick-ass Hunter herself, and ended up being Mrs Dean Winchester. This wasn't the Living Sex God – that was just one of the personae dramatis he played as part of the job he'd been doing since he was four years old – this was death on two legs, with a face that would make women swoon and men scowl, and that wasn't the Killer Smile, but it was the smile of a killer, and I had about five seconds left to save my own life but I was going to die of fright before he had a chance to do anything. **

_**The tagline of the books have it all wrong, don't they?**_** That little voice positively chuckled. **_**Scary isn't sexy. Sexy is scary. Now you've seen it, you know it's fucking terrifying. Reality sometimes is, although people are very good at convincing themselves that it doesn't exist.**_

"**Do I really have to count to three?" he drawled. "Ya know, I don't have a lot of patience, they tell me I have a problem with delayed gratification."**

_**Just like Mr Benson…**_

"**Stop it!" I shrieked, grabbing at my head, "Shut up!"**

"**Lady, you aint in a position to be yellin' at me…"**

"**Not you!" I snapped back, fear making me reckless, "I don't know, all right? I don't know! One minute I was in my room, then the storm broke, and, and, and, stop pointing that thing at me!"**

**After a moment he put up his weapon, but otherwise didn't move. "You got a name?" he asked.**

"**Jack," I heard my voice shake, "I'm Jack. I mean, I'm Jaqueline, but everybody's always called me Jack."**

**He was watching me the way a wolf might watch a wounded rabbit. "Well, here's the thing, Jack," he said, "I'm just here, mindin' my own business, thinkin' that the thunderstorm brewin' outside might cool the place down a bit, when there's a crack and a flash and then there's some random chick sittin' on the floor, outta nowhere, tellin' me that my brother is in danger. You gotta admit, from my point of view, it's kinda weird. So I gotta ask myself, what the hell kinda thing just zaps into the room, unannounced, just suddenly, you know, poofs on into my personal space?"**

**My mouth went into gear before my brain. "An angel," I supplied promptly. "Castiel does that all the time. Then you yell at him. Um."**

**Dean Winchester gave me a long, calculating look. "Yeah," he nodded slowly, "Yeah, he does. Thing is, Jimi here," he gestured at the enormous Rottweiler, "Jimi don't start growling when Cas shows up. Jimi likes Cas. In fact, it's kinda funny to watch Cas get his own personal space invaded."**

"**That's because Cas is your friend," I went on, unthinking, "He doesn't trip Jimi's nose for evil shit."**

**As soon as the words were out of my mouth and Dean smiled that slow, knowing smile at me again, I realised what a mistake I'd just made. "No, he don't," he agreed, "But you did. So, I find I wanna know, what are you?" He paused; the look on his face was probably one that Simone would imagine would make panties hit the floor for a fifty foot radius, but it make me emit a small squeak like a frightened mouse. "I mean, there's all sorts o' ways to find out," he went on as casually as if he was discussing the weather, "Some of 'em are particularly messy, but I doubt anybody will notice a few more stains on the carpet in a place like this…"**

"**I'm just… I'm just me!" I yelped, my breath starting to hitch, "I'm just me, and I'm just here, and I don't know why, and I don't know how," I was mortified to realise that I was crying, "And I didn't want it to happen, okay? This isn't real, this can't be real, it isn't happening, it isn't happening…"**

**That was the point at which I stopped talking, and just curled in on myself and started sobbing. I was frightened, and I wanted to go home.**

**Dean Winchester watched dispassionately; he'd been a Hunter for too long to let himself be lulled off-guard by a show of feminine distress when he had no idea what the hell was going on. But then I heard a soft whine, and felt a wet nose pushing at my hand. I lifted my face, and through the tears I saw the dog. Jimi.**

**Only now, he wasn't growling.**

**With another whine, he butted his big square head gently against me, leaning in to lick at my wet face, the doggy expression of concern a mirror of the one Monty always used when he thought I was upset. With a sniffle, I lifted a hand to his big, earnest face, and stroked his ears; he let out a gentle whuff, wagged his tail, and increased his efforts to lick me, radiating reassurance just by his presence.**

**In that moment he was no half-Hellhound, bent on tearing a monster apart; this was a dog, intent on reassuring a human being in distress. I couldn't help myself: I put my arms around his neck, and wailed into his fur.**

**Dean Winchester let out a heavy sigh. "Ah, shit, J-Man," I looked up and saw him shaking his head in bemusement, "Make up your mind, already, dude."**

"**I'm not evil," I sniffled into the big warm furry neck, "I don't know how I got here, or even where 'here' is."**

"**But you know Bobby Singer," he countered. "And you know I have a brother."**

"**Sam," I nodded, looking up and sniffling some more, "You're Dean Winchester. Sam is your baby brother." And then, because I was feeling completely drained and utterly annoyed at the situation, I added, "You're the bossy and short one."**

"**So he keeps tellin' me," Dean growled. "So, Jack, Jimi's decided that you aint evil shit. For now. But your arrival here counted as evil shit. The nose knows. And, speaking of knowing, you seem to be doin' a bit of that yourself." **

**He reached down to me; I grabbed at his hand, and none too gently he pulled me to my feet. "Oh," I said, looking up at him.**

**He cocked an eyebrow, and if he'd done it in the campus bar after Friday classes had finished, I could name several classmates in my graduating group – not all of them female – who would've run at him backwards. "Oh?" he echoed.**

"**You're, uh," I squirmed under his gaze. "You're… taller than I expected."**

"**Hey, I'm the one who's bossy and short," he shrugged. "So, why don't you tell me why you think Bobby and my brother are in danger?"**

**Gingerly, I sank onto the small rickety stool in the corner, trying to work out where to start. As if reading my thoughts, Dean chuckled, and offered me a smile that was genuinely engaging. "Why don't you start at the beginning?" he suggested, "I'll get you to skip ahead if I think it'll be quicker."**

"**Uh, okay," I replied, "But, well, I'm not even sure where 'the beginning' actually is…"**

"**At the start usually," he added nonchalantly.**

"**O-okay," I stuttered, taking a deep breath. Jimi dropped his chin onto my leg, and wagged his tail. "Okay. This might sound nuts – actually, to you, it probably won't sound so nuts – but to anybody else, you know, anybody normal, it would sound nuts…"**

"**Gee thanks," he rolled his eyes.**

"**You know what I mean!" I sounded petulant even to myself, "People who don't know about…." I swallowed. "It's just… I've never told anybody this, but… it started in high school, when I hit my teens, I started sometimes to… see things. Before they happen."**

He hummed thoughtfully, and then, in the spirit of trying to get as many votes as possible, went back and edited the last few paragraphs. He was in no way motivated by any thoughts of payback, he told himself…

"**You're, uh," I squirmed under his gaze. "You're taller than I expected."**

"**Hey, I'm the one who's bossy and short," he shrugged, scattering a spray of water droplets.**

**The shrug had the unfortunate effect of making the towel around his waist come loose, and pool around his feet.**

**At that, he let out an astonishingly high-pitched squeal, and snatched at the mildewed shower curtain, clutching it to himself.**

"**Stay here with Jimi!" he squeaked, grabbing up his towel and backing out of the small bathroom. "And don't come out until I say you can!" He slammed the door, and I could hear him moving around the room, presumably fishing clothes out of his duffle, complaining all the while about assholes getting into his personal space, and how there's something terribly wrong with the world when a man can't even have a shower without somebody just poofing in on him and I was worse than Cas.**

Satisfied with the updated version, he saved it to the 'In Progress For Comment' section of his account.

"So, how's the writing coming along?" he asked, looking up to see Dean contemplating his own screen.

"I'm not sure," Dean replied in a thoughtful tone, "I mean, I really gotta think about the direction before I go any further."

"I can tell you the direction of your story," Sam snarked, "It's going straight to Hell. Possibly in a handcart."

"Nah, Crowley's the parrot in this one," Dean waved a perfectly manicured hand dismissively. "What I mean is, I gotta work out exactly how I'm gonna save you. And some other stuff."

"What other stuff?" asked Sam, not sure he really wanted to know but drawn to ask the way it was impossible not to watch two trains steaming towards each other on the one set of tracks.

"Well," Dean began, "For instance, should I have you swingin' around naked from the rigging, or should I just get you to beat the shit out of somebody naked?"

"WHAT?" Sam let out a yelp. "What the hell would I be doing swinging around naked from the rigging? What would _anybody_ on a pirate ship be doing, swinging around from the rigging, naked?"

"Well, everybody already realises that it's a ship with lots of werewolves on board," Dean explained in a tone suggesting that he really didn't understand why he had to explain this at all, "And that you've clearly been bitten to save you from your wounds when your ship attacked the _She-Wolf_, so, werewolves are kinda laid back about the whole naked thing."

"Let's set aside the naked thing for a moment," Sam spoke through clenched teeth, "Why would I be swingin' around on the rigging?"

"Well, this is a pirate ship, duh," Dean rolled his eyes. "It's what pirates do."

"I'm not a pirate!" snapped Sam, "I am an officer of the Royal Navy. According to your story so far, I don't even realise that I'm a werewolf!"

"Yeah, but you'd, like, be gettin' into the spirit of it," Dean reasoned, "Bein' on a pirate ship, you'd go all, you know, yo ho ho and swingin' from ropes and stuff."

"A sailing ship can actually be a very dangerous place," Sam said snippily. "Crew members died with alarming regularity from accidents on board: falls from the yards, mishandling of lines, a sheet coming loose could easily break somebody's neck – nobody on a sailing ship, including pirates, would voluntarily do something as stupid as swing around on the rigging!"

"They did it all the time!" protested Dean, "I've seen enough Errol Flynn movies to know that."

"Dean, that's in movies!" Sam snapped. "How many times do I have to explain this to you? Movies is like porn – separate from reality. Porn – reality. Porn – reality. It's like that."

"Well, how did they get onto other ships, then, huh?" Dean demanded triumphantly, "Tell me that, Mr Nautical Genius."

"They waited until the ships were close enough for them to board," Sam shot back, "Trying to swing from one ship to another would be incredibly difficult and extremely dangerous, and would result in more injuries than it did successful boarding parties! Anyway," he went on, "If this crew has werewolves, they could just jump across well before the ships got close enough for humans to cross over. You've seen what Andrew can do; you saw what I could do, when I was werewolfed, I could jump over your car one end to the other and not touch it; it's the hind legs, they generate amazing spring power, because of the digitigrade anatomy I guess, one of these days I've really gotta get around to making some measurements of that guy's hind legs…"

"You can't jump yet, because you haven't shapeshifted yet," Dean pointed out. "You're the one who just reminded me you don't realise you're a werewolf yet."

"So, if I don't realise that I'm a werewolf, then _why the fuck am I naked_?" demanded Sam.

"Well, you can't be wearin' clothes when you shapeshift," Dean sniffed, "You'll just tear 'em to pieces. Your first shapeshift could be unpredictable; that's why you gotta go to the brig. And Ronnie's been sewin' you clothes, so you will have something to wear afterwards." He gave his brother a reproachful look. "She's been sittin' with you, sewin' clothes for you, and wipin' your fevered brow, and tendin' your wounds, she even held your hair outta the way while you puked, and now, you want to put on the pants she's sewn for you with her own hands, you, a complete stranger, from a ship that attacked hers, and you want to put these pants on, and then just tear 'em to shreds when you wolf out. You ungrateful asshole."

"Can't I have a blanket or something in the brig?" Sam tried not to whine. "I mean, there'd be at least a blanket or something there, wouldn't there?"

"I can't give you a blanket," Dean shook his head.

"Why not?" demanded Sam.

"Because," Dean rolled his eyes like the most mouthy teenager, "What's the point of havin' you wanderin' around naked if you can get covered up? My fans won't like that!" He gave his brother his most infuriatingly cheerful grin. "It's all about the upvotes, Sammy!"

"Oh, God," moaned Sam, "Just, just realise that there would be no swinging around on ropes on board a ship, okay? There just wouldn't." He glared at his brother. "I will get pants eventually, won't I?"

"Yeah, for human you." Dean paused. "Although you may not want to wear 'em all the time…"

"Oh, fuck, look, just, just don't you dare put any ruffles on my pants."

"Of course not," scoffed Dean, "These need to practical pants. Sailor's pants. Pirate's pants. Made as quickly as Ronnie can make 'em, since you're bein' so precious about having pants to put on."

"Or my shirt," Sam specified, "Don't you dare put ruffles on my shirt either."

"There won't be ruffles on your shirt," Dean agreed. "Again, not practical, on a ship, and they'd take too long."

"Well, good."

"Because she'll have to make a shirt for you from scratch, since you're such a big boy."

"Well, yeah."

"And that could take a while, after all, she's the captain, and she's got other things to do."

"Yeah, okay."

"And shirts are fiddly to get right."

"What? How do you know that?"

"She told me once. Shirts are fiddly to get them to sit properly. The sleeves and stuff. So it could be a while until you get a shirt."

"Dean…"

"Yep, good thing you're a werewolf, little bro, so you won't notice the cold as you get around on the ship, lookin' all tanned and buff and bare-chested…"

"Dean…"

"And you'll constantly be havin' to dodge cabin girl Becky – maybe I'll make you scream like a little bitch when she sneaks up on and offers to braid your hair for you, and pinches your ass."

"Dean…"

"My readers will enjoy admirin' your physique, and thinkin' about your tattoos, for some reason they just love the idea of you with ink."

"Dean…"

"Yeah, and Becky can keep tryin' to ambush you to get a good look at the one on your…"

"I hate you."

Sam turned back to his own story. It was time to do his bit to raise the overall tone of the writing at this damned conference of nudity-obsessed women and shameless pandering after votes. In the next chapter, he had to get Jack on the road with Dean, to find Sam, work out why she was there, and stop whatever was going after Bobby. There was probably scope for Dean to drawl 'Let's hit the road, Jack' somewhere.

Right after he figured out a way for Dean get all his clothes blown off by some freak meteorological phenomenon the moment they stepped out of the motel room at the exact moment that a truck from a desserts factory crashed right on that corner and coated him with custard.

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

The final day of the meeting was a convivial gathering, and in the late afternoon the participants gathered to socialise, admire the cosplayers and watch the presentation of the awards.

"Hello again fanfic readers and writers!" Sam recognised Fiona and the other members of the organising committee as she addressed the crowd, who cheered back. "Well, haven't we had fun?"

"For a given value of 'fun'," Sam muttered under his breath as the assemblage cheered again.

"Well, I know I have, and it's been wonderful to see so many people working so hard on their writing!" Fiona enthused, "And I hope everybody takes away something from this meeting, and continues to keep giving us more great stories!"

"For a given value of 'great'," Sam muttered again.

"Shhhhhh!" Dean hissed irritably, thwacking Sam's arm, "They're gettin' to the prizes!"

"And I know that this is the bit you've been looking forward to," Fiona beamed at the crowd, "And whilst really, everybody here is a winner, we've got some fun prizes to hand out to some authors who have really caught everybody's attention, so without further delay, let me introduce you to the person we all have to thank for being here today!" She turned and smiled off-stage. "She's usually somebody who likes to be in the background, but she's here to present the prizes, fanfic writers and readers, will you please welcome the one who got this shindig kicked off, some of you may know her from her Crobby writing as 'Bobby's Bird'…"

"That's her!" Sam whispered frantically, "That's her, the Crobby writer! She did the spell! And provided the evil doilies for prizes!"

A pleasantly plump middle aged lady in a smart twin-set stepped onto the stage, and beamed as the audience went wild.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Miss Keely Fearguson!"

* * *

I think little Alfie-Con may be nearing the finish line - send him caffeine-laced reviews to speed him on his way!


	27. Chapter 26

If you've been having iss-ews getting onto FFN, opening chapters and/or leaving reviews, you're not alone. The FFN server has been feeling a bit buggy, but the SysOps will sort it out as soon as they can - remember, on this site, we're getting what we pay for, so be patient, and try again later. And when you do get onto it, don't forget to leave your reviews! I love me some reviews...

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

"Keely Fearguson?" muttered Dean to Sam as the crowd applauded the matronly woman, who beamed dotingly at her audience. "What sort of a name is Keely Fearguson?"

"I dunno," Sam murmured back, "But there's something…"

The growling that travelled to the Winchesters through the ground rather than the air cut him off, and he glanced down at the Cockapoo-ed part-Hellhounds: Lennie and Lara were both glaring at the smiling woman, and their eyes began to glow faintly red.

"Oh, crap," groaned Sam as realisation dawned, "You've gotta be kidding me. I mean, seriously, Keely Fearguson?"

"What?" Dean hissed, looking in bewilderment at the dogs, "What is it? Are they pickin' up on the evil doilies here?"

"If only," moaned Sam. "The perfectly inflected Latin should've been a give-away, along with the Brit spellings. And the Oxford commas."

"What the hell?" demanded Dean _sotto voce_.

"The Crobby stories!" Sam hissed back, "About culturally enriching man-dates! That's no patron saint of fan fiction, Dean – that's Crowley!"

"Huh?" Dean turned to the stage, beautifully outlined eyes bugging. "That? Is Crowley?" He cocked his head. "Wow, and I thought I had problems with structural engineering in the bra department."

"Keely Fearguson, aka Bobby's Bird," Sam sighed glumly. He pulled the small compact from a pocket, and whispered to it, "Mirror mirror, in this hall, who's demonic most of all?"

_Do I really have to tell?  
That is Crowley, King of Hell.  
Plus a feminising spell._

"Sonofabitch!" yapped Dean, as the applause died away.

The moment 'Keely Fearguson' opened her mouth the unmistakeable accent fell out. "It warms my heart," 'she' began, "To see so many of you here, to take an interest in my little gathering of like-mined writers. And I cannot begin to describe how excited I am to see how much so many of you have improved in just these few days!"

"Why is he doing this?" Sam wondered out loud as the crowd applauded again, "What's he getting out of it? Is he somehow sucking the fanfic out of people to write his Crobby stories, and leading them to kill each other as some side effect? And if so, why bother with the spell?"

"And I thought Becky was a sick little monkey," growled Dean, reaching for the demon-killing knife in his totally adorable boot.

"No!" Sam put a hand on his harm, "We gotta find out exactly what he's doing, how he's doing it, and why, if we're going to put a complete stop to it."

"If I stab him, that'll put a complete stop to it," Dean grinned smugly.

"As attractive as that option sounds, no," Sam sighed a little wistfully. "If we confront him now, without all the intel, he'll just find a way to wiggle out of it, he's as slippery as an eel. We gotta catch him with the smoking gun, in flagrante delicto."

"We got the smoking doilies," Dean pointed out, "And the thought of anybody delicting that woman's flagrante is more than my brain can cope with, without a whole lot more alcohol."

"For now, we just wait," Sam stipulated, "Find out exactly what he's doing."

Ms Fearguson gushed briefly over what a wonderful time everybody had had, then moved on to the next topic. "Now, while the idea of these gatherings is to meet up with fellow writers for the pleasure of reading and writing, I do like to acknowledge some who have really made an effort, and given us all particular enjoyment, as judged by you, the upvoting public!" She gestured to some of the organising committee, who picked up the demonic doilies and passed the first one to her. "And so I would like to make a few awards to those who have been voted by you, their fellow writers, to be the most popular fanfics produced at our meeting!" She displayed the first doily. "First of all, a doily crown for Most Popular Story Featuring Sam Being Traumatised By Being Stuffed Into A Very Small Box Indeed For Such A Large And Buff Body goes to…"

"This must be how he's targeting people," Sam observed, as a smiling woman made her way to the stage to be crowned with one of the diabolical decorative motifs, then scampered back to her seat. "I gotta note their names down, we'll have to track 'em down afterwards, see if we can figure out how they're being turned into murderers."

"I don't want us to split up, if we can help it," Dean muttered back, "But if she gives out more than a couple of doilies, I don't see how we can avoid it…"

"And our next one goes to someone who tackled a genre that is fraught with danger, but pulled it off magnificently!" enthused Ms Fearguson. "The doily for Most Popular Story Featuring A Self-Insertion Into The Supernatural Verse goes to… Jaqueline Hyde!"

"That's you!" yipped Dean.

"I gotta go!" Sam shot back, leaping to his feet and doing a convincing impression of a fangirl being told that she was being recognised for her fan fiction writing.

"Be careful!" Dean hissed, his face worried.

Sam made sure he kept beaming and gesturing as he headed for the stage, managing to look as though he was on the verge of tears of happiness.

"My, you are a tall one!" trilled Ms Fearguson, reaching up to crown 'Samantha' with a doily.

"Oh, thank you so much!" Sam gushed, seizing the older woman's hand, "Thank you! This is just, oh, I can't believe it, thank you so much!"

"Well done, darling," Ms Fearguson said as, with a wave to the audience and a wipe of his eyes, Sam headed back to his seat.

"Well, that's one we don't have to track," Dean noted, as RJ, entranced, reached up for the doily on Sam's head. "Hey, don't touch that, little dude, we don't know what it might do yet."

"But now we've got one, we have a better chance of finding out," Sam replied, taking note of the woman who won a doily for Most Popular Use Of An Adult Toy As Part Of An Actual Plot. "It must be the patterning in the crochet that's important…"

"Our next award is for Most Popular Alternative Universe Story, and it goes to… ImpalaDude!"

"Huh?" went Dean. "Did she just say…"

"It's you!" Sam juggled dog leads and reached over to grab RJ, "Go get your doily! Don't tip him off!"

Dean's act of being a woman overwhelmed by acclamation was very convincing. In fact, Sam thought, he wasn't sure that there was too much acting being required at all.

'Dee' managed to gush her thanks, and a mascara-tinted tear even made its way down one cheek.

"Don't rush off, love," Ms Fearguson smiled dotingly, "Because we also have another doily here – the prize for Most Upvoted Writing Of Gratuitous Winchester Nudity also goes to you!"

"Oh, fuck," Sam muttered to himself as Dean was crowned with a second doily, and his mascara began to run in earnest. "We're never going to hear the end of it, RJ, you know that."

Having tearfully acknowledged the applause of the crowd, Dean headed back to his seat. "And you said I wrote crap," he sniffled, taking a tissue from a sleeve and dabbing carefully at his face.

"You did write crap," Sam confirmed tartly. "Until that spell kicked in. Then it became a different kind of crap."

"Says you," Dean humphed, "Says Mr I-Only-Got-One-Doily."

"Jesus, Dean," Sam muttered as the organisers made some closing remarks of thanks and wished everybody happy writing in future, "We're here to do a job, okay? 'Popular' doesn't necessarily mean 'good'. Complete crap can be popular. Justin Bieber is popular. _Twilight_ books and movies are popular."

"Well, if I got upvoted so much, somebody must think that what I wrote was worthwhile," Dean sniffed disdainfully.

Keely Fearguson took the stage once more. "Well, darlings, as much as I'd love to stay and mingle with so many talented and devoted writers, and discuss our favourite Hunters with you, I have other commitments, and must be on my way." She held up a hand as there was a chorus of disappointment. "But I have been so happy to see you all in action. Enjoy the closing mixer, take the time to congratulate our doily winners, and write on!"

To another round of applause, Ms Fearguson waved, beamed dotingly, and left.

"So, do we follow him?" asked Dean, taking back RJ (who took advantage of the distracting crowd noise to grab at his parent's chest with a triumphant cry of 'Titi!'. "Ow! Hey, what have I told you about mauling the mammary merchandise?"

"If we can figure out how to defuse the doilies before the mixer ends tonight, maybe we can disable the ones given to those other women," Sam theorised, "Then we can contain ours, and see what they do." He paused. "And try to work out why. What is Crowley getting out of this?"

"The fun of watching people who like us tear each other to pieces?" Dean suggested. "He is a demon, after all, and demons are evil assholes."

"That's ridiculously passive-aggressive, even for Crowley," said Sam.

"Well, we know what the doilies will do," Dean pointed out, "Make us decide to go kill one of the other participants. Possibly each other."

"I think our usual wardings will stop it happening to us," Sam mused, "But if we can confront Crowley with the evidence, and a spell in progress, and show him that we've worked out his plan, then he won't have any excuse. It's about plugging all possible loopholes."

"You woulda made a great lawyer," Dean grunted, checking his watch as they headed for the car. "So, back to the room, defuse the doilies, save the ladies, work out the evil plan, kick the King of Hell's ass. Just another day in the job, really."

"I guess," Sam nodded.

"And while you do research into diabolical doilies, I can work on my story some more!" enthused Dean.

"Huh?" Sam's head snapped up. "Dean, you've got the doily, okay? You don't need to write any more of that story!"

"But the server is staying open," Dean said, "And my fans are pestering me to finish it!"

"Your… fans?" echoed Sam.

"Yeah, my reviewers!" Dean smiled sunnily. "They love my writing! So, unless you got something you need me to chase up for you, I'll get on with my story."

Sam gave his brother a sour look. "I really don't know why anybody would feel the need to cast a spell to try to motivate me to want to murder you," he growled, "All they have to do is wait for you to open your mouth within range of my hearing."

"Shut up, bitch. They're gonna love the next bit. I'm gonna swing from the rigging, even if you won't."

"Well, your domestic habits are sometimes positively simian, so at least for you it'll be authentic."

"Just for that, I think I'll drop you overboard, and then you'll be all wet and dripping, and your shirt can cling to you and reveal the contours of the physique below it…"

"If I'd had any idea that contact with oestrogen would affect your brain this way, I never would've agreed to go genderbending as a disguise."

"Hey, at least you'll have your pants on."

"Yeah, great."

"For now."

"Jerk."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

"We gotta get more of this stuff digitised," Sam grumbled as he consulted a scan of one of Bobby's books. "If we could get more of the material online, we could consult it wherever we are – if we could set up a database, a network, other Hunters could use it, too. We could set up a couple of bots to trawl it, compile metadata, make it searchable…"

"I got no idea what you're talkin' about," interrupted Dean, "But I will warn you about givin' computers too much information – it starts with networks and digitising stuff, then you say, yeah, let's have some bots, that's cool, next thing you know, it's nuclear bombs and naked dudes from the future."

"Not that sort of bot, bro," Sam sighed and rubbed his eyes. "It would just be so much more efficient if we could get organised, so Hunters don't continually have to re-invent the wheel."

"Good luck with that," Dean snorted in amusement. "Gettin' Hunters organised? Be like herding cats."

"Actually, the phrase that popped into my mind was 'Like herding angry hungry rabid hyenas whilst wearing a waistcoat made of steak'," replied Sam. "Even just collating and organising lore info online would be a huge step forward."

"Each time you try to get Bobby's library 'organised', he pitches a fit," Dean reminded his brother. "He likes it just how it is. He won't even let that monkey dude, his friend who visits from another reality, organise his books, and it takes serious balls to face down an OCD monkey who's screamin' at you because he wants to catalogue your books accordin' to some system other than pilin' them up in a way such that they don't fall over too often."

"The Librarian is an ape, Dean, not a monkey," Sam ground out in a long-suffering tone. "Orang-utans are apes."

"Well, if three hundred pounds of hairy ape can't convince Bobby to get organised, two hundred or so of hairy emo sure won't," Dean suggested.

Muttering dire imprecations against insufferable big brothers, Sam stared hard at the doilies, and compared each one to the page he had open on the screen. The pieces of intricate crochet were laid out in the centre of a large piece of paper, surrounded with carefully drawn sigils and charms of warding. "I think this is using a similar strategy to the one you inadvertently used to summon a Hellhound all those years ago," he surmised, with a small smile at the remembrance of Jimi Senior, the Hellhound who had answered Dean's unwitting call and become a Hunter's dog.

"Jimi wasn't interested in motivatin' me to go kill people I never met before, though," Dean pointed out. "Once he found me, all he really seemed to be interested in motivatin' me to do was drop bacon, or buy him packs of hot wings."

"I know," Sam huffed in frustration. "And I can't work out how the hell it's been adapted to do that!" He consulted his laptop again. "There's no curses that I can detect, they're not possessed, there aren't any malevolent entities lurking and waiting to jump out and inspire murder…"

"Uh, whatever it's meant to be doin," Dean cut into his thoughts, "I think it's doin' it."

"Huh?" Sam looked up at the familiar growling noise: both the dogs were staring hard up at the table, and growling, eyes pulsing with ember-red light. Baring his own teeth, Dean picked up RJ, and put him on the bed furthest from the table – both dogs broke away from growling at the doilies to station themselves by the boy, 'Lennie' on the bed with him and 'Lara' on the floor, watchful. "Oh, crap."

He looked to the doilies again. The beads worked into the design of one were glowing very faintly with a pulsing red light, and the edges of another closest to a sigil of protection began to smoulder.

"It's sure triggered the noses for evil shit," noted Dean grimly, as Lara yawned, briefly showing a mouthful of jagged hell-teeth as if warning the universe in general not to threaten the child in 'her' charge.

Sam looked at his brother. "Do you feel any more homicidal than usual? I realise that the signal to noise ratio might be pretty low, given your usual background homicidal tendencies…"

"Bitch. But nope," Dean shrugged easily. "Not unless something comes through that door and threatens RJ, then I'll tear its fucking head off without a second thought."

"Okay, that's just baseline Dean, then." He consulted his own thoughts and emotions as honestly as he could. "And I don't feel like strangling you any more than figuratively for your terrible writing," he ventured.

"The wardings are holding it, then," Dean noted, as another sigil began to smoulder. "Can you, uh," he waved a hand uncertainly, "Now you can see 'em in action, can you figure out what they're actually doing?"

"I don't know," Sam replied tensely, beginning to pace as he thought out loud. "The Hellhound-summoning thing, it acted as a kind of beacon, I think, something for Jimi Senior to home in on."

"What, like, diabolical GPS?" posed Dean, with a glace over to RJ and the dogs. "So, could this not be carrying the spell, but be, like, directions for where to send a spell? Cast one remotely, on whoever has the doily?"

"That's a possibility," Sam agreed, still pacing. "Like a locator. Jimi found you, because you were the right person, with the right qualities, with the right design, and that let him home in on you. But Jimi had a mind to use, an intelligence – doggy intelligence, granted, and sometimes, not terribly intelligent intelligence, but he had the innate awareness to answer a summons. Could a spell do that? A spell doesn't have a brain, it doesn't have a mind, it doesn't…" his voice trailed off, and he let out a groan of distress.

"What?" Dean was at his brother's side instantly. "Sam, what?"

"Oh, fuck," Sam sank into a chair, and dropped his head into his hands. "Oh, fuck, have I really been that stupid?" He started tapping frantically at his computer. "Oh, fuck, have I really screwed the pooch that hard?"

"Talk to me," Dean snapped, then sat down to wait – Sam, or more accurately Sam's brain, was in The Zone, and he'd just have be patient until it had compiled the data it had just received.

"This man's trash is that man's treasure," Sam muttered to himself, fingers flying over the keyboard. "Something doesn't have to be good to be popular…. You said the server for this conference was gonna stay online for a few days?"

"Yeah, for a week or two," Dean answered, "So people can finish up stories they've been workin' on, read some of what they missed during the meeting, generally keep the fanfic love happening."

Sam found his way to the site from the previous fanfic conference. "It's not crap writing," he hissed, "It's writing that _I _thought was crap, but not everybody agrees with me. The women who were murdered following the last one, I thought their writing was atrocious, but… " he sat back and let out a breath. "This one won the prize for Most Popular Story In Which The Winchesters Retire From Hunting And Set Up House In The Suburbs And Sam Goes Back To Study And Dean Runs A Car Restoration Workshop."

Dean's eyes widened. "That's a thing?"

"It was at that conference. And this one, she was awarded Most Popular AU Where Dean And Ronnie Get Married And Have Kids And She Dies Tragically Saving The Kids And Dean Goes On To Avenge Her And They Grow Up To Be Awesome Hunters."

Dean let out a yip of horror. "Now, that had to be crap writing!"

"It was," Sam snapped tersely, "It was terrible. At least, according to me. But it was popular. And…"

A new link brought up an image of two women, beaming at the camera, not at all self-conscious about looking silly with doilies on their heads.

Sam turned an anguished face to his brother. "I've had this completely wrong from the start," he practically wailed, "Those doilies aren't carrying spells to inspire homicide; they're acting as beacons. Homing devices. They're not turning people into murderers – they're being used to designate victims."

* * *

OF COURSE Bobby knows The Librarian from the Discworld. They're both Persons Of Knowledge, and they network. (If I drop off the radar for a few days it could be because I'm reading Sir Pterry's last book, 'The Shepherd's Crown'. And so after this one, there will be no more Discworld stories; WAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!)

It had to be Crowley, didn't it? What a naughty naughty demon he is. What is he up to? Help Alfie-Con the plot bunny to speed to the finish line by feeding him reviews!


	28. Chapter 27

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

"We gotta find the other women who won Most Popular awards, and destroy those damned doilies," growled Dean. He turned to the two dogs, and made a decision. "We'll take RJ with us – Lem will stay in the car with him, and you'll have that sneakin' little asshole of yours engage his Klingon cloaking device if need be." He picked up his gun, frowning. "We need to be quick, and quiet. Salt and lighter fluid should do it for the doilies, then…"

Both their heads whipped around at the knock on the door.

Sam moved silently to the peep hole, and peered through. "It's Fiona, and Rachel," he hissed, "From the organising committee. Rachel's the one who led the spell-casting, the one who looks like she's permanently cosplaying Magrat Garlick." He glanced back at the table.

Dean followed his line of sight. "I thought you said they were contained!" he hissed back, as the doilies continued to smoulder and the sigils glowed.

"They are!" Sam shot back.

"Yoo-hoo!" the knock sounded again. "Samantha? Are you in?"

Dean glanced at the dogs; both of them eyed the door, but neither of them growled, or showed hellteeth. "The noses for evil shit don't appear to be detecting, uh, evil shit."

"That could be because these women aren't actually evil," Sam posited, "But I don't want to take any chances. I want both the dogs keeping RJ safe, just in case." At a word from his Alpha, Lars hopped onto the bed with his brother and RJ, and snuggled closely in between them. The child and both dogs disappeared.

"You two watch him no matter what," Dean instructed the now-invisible dogs, seating himself at the table so that to the casual observer, he looked like an attractive woman sitting in front of a laptop, but he was actually between the door and his son. He nodded at Sam.

"Hi!" Fiona gushed as Sam opened the door.

"Oh, Fiona!" Sam smiled back, "And Rachel. What can I do for you?"

"Well, when you didn't show up at the mixer, we thought you must be getting ready to leave, since you're from out of town," Rachel said, "And we just wanted to drop in and say congratulations, and thank-you for your help."

"Oh, well, uh, thanks," Sam made himself smile back, "And yeah, we should probably get going, so…"

Fiona peered around Sam, and smiled at Dean. "Oh, hey, it's Dee, isn't it?" she went on. "ImpalaDude? Oh, I loved your AU story! I'm so glad you were recognised for it!"

"Well, thank you," Dean beamed sincerely, "It was a total shock, I've only ever done it just for a bit of fun…"

"Are you still working on it?" enthused Fiona, darting in the door as Sam let out a yap of alarm, "Oh, I hope you are, I really want to know how it ends!"

"Me too!" added Rachel, scooting in after the other woman, "Oh, I just can't wait to see Sam have to go out on deck, and walk to the brig, absolutely naked!"

They clustered behind Dean, trying to look at the screen, as Sam frantically sought a way to encourage them to leave.

"Is Becky going to try to grab his ass?" asked Fiona. "Please tell me somebody will throw her overboard. It's probably something that happens to her regularly, because she's so annoying…"

"Where exactly is the tattoo that's on his 'your…'?" asked Rachel avidly.

"She had to turn him into a werewolf to save him, didn't she?" asked Fiona excitedly. "When does he do his first shapeshift? Is he self-aware?"

"How did Gabriel get on board?" Rachel wanted to know. "Oh, God, having them both naked in the brig, that's so hot…"

"Please tell me you'll have Andrew and Ronnie get back together at some stage," pleaded Fiona, "They obviously had a fight when they first met, and there was a misunderstanding, but they are destined to be together…"

"And Dean has to get into a fight with Ronnie at some point, over his little brother," Rachel stated, "And his shirt will get torn off, and she'll grab hold of him, and force him to his knees, but he'll be totally defiant, and what with him being the Living Sex God, she'll look at him, and he'll do that angry lip-quivering thing, and she'll smile, and say, "Have this man washed, then tie him up and bring him to my cabin…"

"We have to see the _She-Wolf_ and her crew in action!" Fiona declared, "Find out how she defeats ships that go after her so readily…"

"Oh, hey, what happens if Sam does something to challenge Captain Ronnie?" Rachel squeaked in anticipation. "And of course she has to assert her authority as captain, and her dominance as Alpha, and being on a pirate ship, he got… a flogging? Oh, all that skin, that back, and then, and then, there could be some serious h/c in the brig afterwards as Gabriel looks after him…"

Sam let out a groan on the inside; bespelled murderous women would probably be easier to deal with than a couple of Dee fans gushing over the purplest pirate prose ever produced.

"And when they encountered Lucifer's ship, the _Perdition_ – will that bit stay in? Will Castiel have to confront his big brother?"

"Oh, hey, what if, what if, the _She-Wolf_ was carrying an exotic cargo from far-flung places, and in the hold they have this, like, a gigantic barrel of chocolate, and at some point Sam falls into it…"

"Does Ronnie double as the ship's blacksmith? Because if they're a ship of waifs and strays, crew members might have to double up on jobs they do. And she could come to think of Sam as her 'pup', and she starts showing him metalworking stuff…"

"If he did that, he'd get really hot and sweaty, wouldn't he? Working at a forge? So, he'd have to take his shirt off, and we could watch his muscles work while he was banging away with a hammer, all sweat-slicked, and bulging – oh, and Ronnie too, I've got a friend who really likes to think about watching her arms…"

"Or maybe Dean gets really annoyed when he sees how well Sam is fitting in on the _She-Wolf_, and he has a big fight with Sam, who hasn't decided whether he wants to take the potion that will unwolf him…"

"Yeah, and then, they get into a fight over it, and they fall into the barrel of chocolate and they _both_ get covered in it…"

"There has to be a happy ending!"

"And hot make-up sex in the darkness of the hold!"

"I love the idea of Crowley as a parrot!"

"I love the idea of Sam as a bottom!"

"You'll just have to wait to find out," Dean grinned as infuriatingly as he knew how, while Sam made small noises of horror, whether at the presence of these two avid fanfic fans or at the idea of being covered by chocolate and then by his brother would be difficult to ascertain. The offending intruders made good-natured noises of disappointment. "But if you've got all these ideas, why don't you go and write your own takes on how it should happen?"

Both women gasped. "You… you wouldn't mind us doing that?" asked Rachel in a hushed tone.

"Course not," Dean smiled broadly, "We're all just doin' it for the fun, right? The more, the merrier! It can be an AU-AU!"

Sam had seen it written before, but he thought this might've been the first time he'd genuinely heard a couple of women actually go 'Squee!'.

"And I think you're totally right," Dean added judiciously, "It's not my thing, but if you're into a bit of, _ahem_, brotherly_ love_, then Sam would totally be the bottom."

"I'm gonna start writing tonight!" declared Fiona, beaming.

"Sooner you go, sooner you can start," Dean smiled back.

"That is SO generous of you!" yipped Rachel, chunky jewellery clunking as she leaned in to give 'Dee' a hug. "I'll never write a well as you do, but…" her voice trailled off as she noticed the doilies sitting in the middle of the wardings. "Oh, are those runes?" she asked, taking an interest in the warding designs.

"Sigils," Sam yapped, "And it really would be better if you didn't…"

At that point, three things happened at once:

With the sort of insatiable curiosity typical of humanity, the sort that asks questions like 'I wonder if this stuff is flammable?', 'What happens if I mix this with that, and shake it vigorously?', and 'What does this button do?', Rachel reached out and picked up one of the doilies.

The doily underneath it, which had been smouldering at the edges, began to smoke, and char the paper beneath it.

One of the warding sigils burst into flame.

And Winchester luck kicked in.

Okay, so four things, really.

Rachel whirled around, face snarling, "You think you're so talented, so _popular_," she hissed malevolently.

"Huh?" Dean looked up, eyes wide, then ducked as she threw the smouldering doily at him. "Dafuq?"

"The containment's breached!" yelled Sam, as Fiona turned and swung her tote at him with surprisingly swift viciousness, "The spell's kicked in! Oof! Jesus, what have you got in there?"

"People who write self-inserts are attention-seeking bitches!" shrilled Fiona, demeanour completely changed from gushing to rage.

Since the spell had not activated to inspire murder until the women were already in the room, they had not come prepared to kill, and so they were reduced to looking around for anything that might be wielded as a weapon. In Fiona's case, that was what she had immediately to hand, which happened to be her bag, and she swung it with diabolically-enhanced anger and strength.

"Ow!" Sam yelped, seeking for a way to stop the angry woman before him without hurting her, "OW! Hey, careful, you got knitting needles in there!" On the next swing, he grabbed the bag, and gave Fiona a hard shove, sending her against the wall, eliciting a harpy-like shriek from the bespelled woman.

"Burn 'em!" yelled Dean, pushing away from the table and grappling with Rachel "Burn the damned doilies! OW!" He added, as he copped a ceramic necklace in the eye.

"You think you're so much _better_," sneered Fiona, springing to her feet.

"Just because you got the most _upvotes_," growled Rachel, flinging another doily at Dean.

"How?" Sam yelled back as Fiona leaped at him again. "I drop my guard, I'll get _bagged_ to death!"

"Well, I'm here to tell you that you're not popular with _me_!" Fiona yowled, hefting the bag again.

"Well, you aint popular with me!" Dean snapped back, landing a punch on Rachel that sent her reeling, "Because I read your stuff, and I know why I got the doily – hell, I got two! Because your writing sucks, you hear me?"

"What the hell are you doing?" yipped Sam in horror – even as the words came out of his mouth, he recognised the behavioural pattern: Dean was provoking the bad guys to draw them to himself.

Snarling like rabid dogs, the women turned to Dean.

"Yeah, you heard me," he said, his cockiest sneer on lips perfectly glossed with a shade called 'Scarlet Whore', "I got upvoted because I _am_ better than you. I write better, I dress better, I got flawless skin, I got a cleavage that could hide a kitten, I'm talented and drop-dead gorgeous and I got _two_ doilies, bitches, and _I'm more popular than you_!"

With that provocation, they both flew at him, hands outstretched like claws.

Sam scrabbled after the doilies as Dean did his best to draw the women away from him, but they were relentless, it was two against one, and the two were given unnatural strength by the spell – the started to land blows on Dean, who swayed but stayed on his feet, as Sam snatched up the last doily from the floor, getting a savage kick in the ribs for his trouble, then looked around for the trash bin. He dropped the doilies in, then fumbled a lighter out of his pocket, flicking at it desperately as the miserable thing refused to light.

There was a screech of triumph as a ringing slap snapped Dean's head backwards. He stumbled back, his legs hitting the edge of the bed behind him. Another punch sent him toppling back, stunned. He managed to kick out at Rachel as he fell, sending her to the floor with a thump, but Fiona let out a bestial yowl, grabbed up the ugly bedside lamp, and prepared to bash in 'Dee's' skull.

Then three things happened:

Two Cockapoos and a small child suddenly materialised on the bed next to Dean.

RJ smiled widely, and with his war cry of "Titi!", reached up and treated Fiona to a bilateral nipple cripple that would've done the most appallingly outrageous frat house hazing ritual proud.

Fiona screamed, dropping the lamp, and fell to the floor, clutching at her chest.

Sam's lighter finally caught and he dropped it into the small bin.

Okay, so four things, really.

There was a sudden strange silence as the doilies burned with a cold red glow, broken only by the combatants gasping to get their breath back. And Fiona's pained whimpers. "Oh, my chest," she moaned.

The two women sat up on the floor, looking bewildered. "What… what happened?" asked Rachel, looking lost.

"Gas leak," said Sam firmly.

"A gas leak?" squeaked Fiona in a worried.

"Definitely," Sam went on with great certainly. "One moment you were just discussing ideas for Dee's story, the next, you all just kind of fainted, and face-planted. Or, uh, in your case, Fiona, you chest-planted." He opened the door and making shooing motions. "So, there's obviously something in here that caused it. Most likely, it's a gas leak. So, everybody out."

"A gas leak?" Rachel echoed Fiona's tone.

Dean recovered magnificently, staggering to his feet and picking up RJ. "Oh, yeah, you'd be amazed at how often it happens in these cheap places," he intoned ominously. "Come on, get outside in the fresh air and everything will be fine."

The Winchesters ushered the women out, chatting reassuringly about how there would be no harm done because they'd only gotten a small exposure to the leaking gas, and they should maybe go home and rest and do something non-strenuous, like maybe work on their next fanfics, while they alerted to management to the problem. Still looking somewhat bewildered, Fiona and Rachel made their goodbyes, and left.

"Dean, are you okay?" asked Sam as soon as their visitors were out of earshot.

"Sure, Sammy," Dean grinned as he gave the women a last wave. "Thanks to RJ here – good timing, little dude."

"Titi!" piped RJ, waving as well, then pausing to eye his parent's bust. "Titi?" he asked slyly.

"Hey, look, just that once it was okay," Dean said sternly. "But unless it's in the cause of saving Daddy from having his brains smashed out, no chest-grabbing, okay?"

"Meh," humphed RJ with an adorable pout.

Sam bent to pat the dogs, who sat grinning at the Winchesters' feet. "You did a great job, guys," he praised them, "But now we'll need you to watch RJ again, because we gotta head off to find the other doilies and burn them before…"

The dogs suddenly started to growl, and their eyes glowed intensely red. Sam straightened up and looked around. "What is it?" he asked.

"Something's tripped the noses for evil shit," muttered Dean, "Come on, let's tool up for…"

"Before he could finish the sentence, the two Cockapoos extruded their hellteeth, and shot off around the building.

"Hey!" Sam called, setting off after the dogs, rounding the corner just in time to see them dash into the shrubbery behind the motel without slowing. "Jesus, what have they found?"

Dean turned, about to issue an order to grab weapons, when they heard an outraged female voice from the foliage.

"What the… oh, Lucifer's bum, what the hell are you doing? Let go! Let go! OW! This is expensive fabric, you bloody things, don't you dare… oh, bollocks…"

* * *

...But we all knew that was coming, didn't we? The expression we use Down Here is 'sprung bad'.

Go Alfie-Con, go! See the bunny round the turn into the final lap! Send him reviews to power him along!


	29. Chapter 28

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

The accented litany of complaint continued as the Winchesters pushed through the scrubby trees, seeking the source of prolific protestation.

"Get out of it! Get out of it, I said, you damned doggy dishmops! Ow! OW!"

There was a squawk of protest, and the sound of tearing fabric.

"Oh, bollocks! Look what you've done! That's bespoke, you little turd, I'll have your ears for that! I'll set _my_ dog on you, and she'll tear your disgustingly doggy little souls right out of your nauseatingly endearing fluffy little carcasses! You don't know who you're dealing with, you miserable things, I'm the KiiiIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

The rising shriek was one they'd encountered before: it was the distinctive and unmistakeable sound of a demon realising that it had Hellhounds on its case.

Or, as in this instance, on its tailored skirt.

They found their way into a small clearing, where Miss 'Keely Fearguson', resplendent in tailored twin set, pearls, and sensible but very expensive shoes, was staring in disbelief, mouth agape, at the two adorably fuzzy Cockapoos now hanging from her hemline.

To give Crowley his due, he recovered magnificently, turning a welcoming smile to the Winchesters. "Hello, ladies!" he beamed with the female equivalent of 'in an avuncular manner', "It's Samantha and Dee, isn't it? Yes! Congratulations on your upvotes, darlings! Will you be off to the after-conference mixer, then? I look forward to joining you, but I'm afraid I have been accosted by these two dear silly little doggies, what naughty little scamps they are, I wonder if we might just have a little word about dry cleaning costs…"

Dean cut straight to the chase. "Cut the crap, Crowley," he snarled, "What the hell are you playing at?"

Crowley produced an act of good-natured ignorance and earnest confusion that could've won an Oscar (or at least a very senior diplomatic position in an embassy somewhere). "No, dear, not quite, my name is 'Keely', although I understand that it's somewhat unusual… oh, goodness," the smile turned brittle for just a moment as one of the dogs gave the skirt another tug, "I do believe I heard a seam split…"

"You can call yourself the Maharajah of Swat, for all I care," Sam scowled, "But right now, you pull the plug on the bespelled doilies and stop whatever it is that you're doing to inspire women to kill each other – over voting about fanfiction stories? Was that seriously the best you could do?"

A brief flicker of calculation crossed the cross-dressing King of Hell's face as he decided on another tack. "Oh, yes, that's right, Rachel mentioned that you helped with the inspiration spell!" he said in a motherly tone. "You misunderstand, love, there's nothing being inspired there except for better writing…"

"You know, I'm always bein' told that I have no tolerance for delayed gratification," Dean mused, pulling the demon-killing knife from his boot and using it to push delicately and theatrically at an already immaculately trimmed cuticle. "Which I think is a fair thing, because delayed gratification has no place outside the bedroom. Or the spa. Or wherever you happen to be – now, Mistress Amanda from Nevada, there's a lady who understands the true place of delayed gratification…"

Sam elbowed his brother viciously.

"…But in this instance, I'm thinkin' that if you don't drop the Tootsie act right this fucking minute, and start de-mojoing those doilies and stop the killings and whatever the fuck else you're doing, then a bit of instant action will not be criticised." He gave Crowley his most winning smile. "I bet I could do more than unpick your seams with this, Your Majesty."

Crowley's eyes bugged as he stared at the knife, and then at the Winchesters. "Squirrel?" he asked in a voice dripping disbelief. "Is that… seriously?" He looked up at Sam. "Moose? Really?" He blinked. "It is you! Sam Winchester! I'd know that hair and that bitchy expression anywhere!" He turned his gaze on RJ. "Lucifer's bum, it's the Winchester sprog!"

"Assbu'!" yelled RJ, an adorably angry frown on his face as he hurled his spit-soaked knit toy at Crowley, hitting him in the considerable bust.

"Oh, yuck!" the King of Hell yipped, gingerly plucking the toy away as Dean snatched it back, "Oh, no, this is silk dupioni, you terrible tot, how am I supposed to get the mark out?" Then he looked down at the two dogs, who still had hold of his skirt, which was straining perilously at the waistband. "And your damned mutts!" he snapped, "I might've known! Only Squirrel Winchester would send a couple of practically-Hellhounds after me wearing Cockapoo suits!"

"Oh, you know that the outside don't make any difference to a dog of the Blood," Dean grinned, "I could turn 'em into Pomeranians, and they could still tear you apart."

"What the hell are you two doing running around getting in touch with your feminine sides?" Crowley demanded.

"We could ask you the same thing," Sam pointed out, "In fact, we are asking you."

"I suggest you start answering," Dean smiled brightly, waggling the knife. "Sam here is gettin' hormonal, I think she might have a PMS, and you don't wanna make her angry…"

"I do NOT have PMS!" protested Sam.

"I think actually you might, bro," Dean replied, "You've been eatin' a lot of chocolate stuff, and bein' even more emo than usual."

"Does Bobby know about this?" Crowley cut in. "Oh, he'll be so disappointed. He's always thought of you as the sons he never had, but he's such a darling, I'm sure that he'll accept you for whoever you decide you really are…"

"We are like this because we needed to go undercover for a Hunt," Sam growled at him, "Because women were attending _Supernatural_ fan fiction writing conferences, and some of 'em were ending up dead. We had to find out how, and why, and stop it." He glared down at Crowley. "So we've worked out the how. But seriously, why?"

Crowley rolled his eyes like the most passive-aggressive teenager. "Be_caaaause_," he drawled, "I'm a _deeeemon_. That means, I do evil things. No, really."

Dean wasn't buying it. "But why the elaborate scheme? Why go to the trouble of setting up these conventions? I mean, there's gotta be a less complicated way to be evil."

"I _like_ scheming!" Crowley snapped, "I'm the King of Hell, remember? But even I have to relax sometimes, have me-time. Some people knit, some people do jigsaw puzzles, some people build model railways, some people jump out of perfectly serviceable aeroplanes, I like to scheme! It's a hobby, all right? I have a very high-stress occupation, and I need to do something fun every once in a while!"

"But why _this_ scheme?" Sam pressed, "It's a lot of effort, for, comparatively, little return."

"I just wanted to get out and do some old-fashioned moustache-twirling and 'bwa-ha-ha'ing!" snapped Crowley, swatting at the dogs.

"Well, you could probably nearly twirl the moustache," Dean observed, peering at Crowley's face. "I mean, you take a post-menopausal host, surely you coulda made time in your busy scheming schedule to take the wax pot to that top lip…"

"Who are you calling post-menopausal?" yapped Crowley, his hand flying to his lip.

"It just doesn't make sense," Sam went on, worrying at Crowley's motives like a terrier with a rat, "Yeah, even if you're the King of Hell, money means nothing to you, but with the kind of resources you have access to, you could scheme really grandly – but fan fiction? I mean, if you wanted to, you could get people to murder each other over really big, important things, not how popular somebody's stories are! It's just, it's just…" he eyed Crowley in bewilderment. "It's a bit, well, infra dig for the King of Hell, isn't it?" He cocked his head, his eyes narrowing. "Unless there's something else you're getting out of this."

"Maybe it's just jealousy," sniffed Dean disdainfully, "He just wants to build people up then tear 'em down, because nobody likes him."

"Envy," Crowley nodded in agreement, "It's a Capital Vice, a Deadly Sin. It's practically in my contract to commit the Seven Big Ones anytime, anyplace, anywhere. You should've seen me do Greed the other night, it could be the female body, but for some reason I was moved to eat nearly it's weight again in doughnuts…"

"No, he's not popular," Sam mused, frowning slightly.

Dean recognised the expression. "Oh, crap," he muttered.

"What?" snapped Crowley, making another futile effort to dislodge the dogs from his hemline.

"I recognise that expression," Dean intoned, "It means that Madam Emo here is Workin' Something Out."

"Popular writers," Sam's trail of thought twisted deeper into the landscape of Crowley's scheming, "You sent doilies home with the most popular writers. After working a spell to improve the conference's writing overall, which made one particular writer," he jerked a thumb at his brother, "Even more popular. But that was a dangerous spell – unstable, unanchored, and giving it a lot of juice for no specific target."

"Why can't people just acknowledge that I'm an evil bastard?" Crowley asked wistfully. "Why can't you just accept me for who I am?"

"I get a mental image of a hamster runnin' in a wheel, when he's thinkin' like this," Dean commented, watching his brother's face, "And from the expression now, I'd say that hamster just skolled another Red Bull."

"And the moment the spell was triggered, we went from being popular, to being very _un_popular," Sam continued, "It was as if the popularity was suddenly just sucked right out of us, there and then. In which case, I gotta wonder," he eyed Crowley with amused speculation, "Where did the 'popular' suddenly go?"

Crowley drew himself to his full height, no mean feat for somebody shaped like a woman who didn't have so much a waist as a chest-height circumference. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

"Oh, I think you do," Sam grinned at him. "I had this totally wrong from the beginning, didn't I?" He shook his head ruefully. "I thought that women were being motivated to murder each other over bad writing, wasn't it? But bad writing had nothing to do with it, did it? It was just a means to an end. A way to proliferate… popularity."

Crowley sagged, and his face took on a defeated expression. It was the expression of a dog that, knowing that he is not allowed to dig in the potted plant in the corner of the living room, has done just that, with great enthusiasm and much enjoyment, only to realise that one of his humans has been standing in the room the whole time, and now, there will definitely be no treats.

"That was the backlash from the spell, wasn't it?" theorised Sam. "You might not have intended it, but that's what happened. You found a way to concentrate popularity into a few individuals, then you, you, you _harvested_ it, and in that sudden complete anti-popularity afterwards, other conference-goers turned to murdering them. The murders were never your intention – they were just a side effect."

"Well, when it started happening, I thought of them as a happy coincidence," Crowley admitted sheepishly. "The icing on the cake, so to speak."

"Popularity?" Dean broke in. "He's, what, he's_ farming_ popularity at these things? Why? No amount of popularity will ever make the rest of Hell like you, Crowley, demons hate everybody except themselves, you of all demons should know… oh," a smile of understanding dawned on his face. "Oh."

"It isn't other _demons_ he wants to be popular with," Sam chuckled as his brother caught on.

Crowley's face flushed beet red.

"Those Crobby fics were kind of poignant," he added.

"You're just a sad, sad guy, Crowley," sighed Dean. "And I can't believe you would think you would get away with it. I can't believe you would think it would work: an infinite number of fanfic authors at an infinite number of keyboards being upvoted by an infinite number of monkeys would never generate enough popularity to make Bobby be your BFF."

"Desperate morons will undertake desperate acts," shrugged Sam.

"And of course," Dean grinned from ear to ear, "When Bobby finds out what you've done this time, all in the name of tryin' to get him to like you, and be your friend…"

"You can't tell him!" Crowley shrieked, eyes bugging in horror! "You absolutely can NOT tell him! He'll hate me! He'll call me idjit! He'll call me asshat!" He let out a wail of misery. "His dogs will traumatise my clothing! Those gargoyles will strafe me! He'll shoot me with his Anti-Demon Rounds – _he'll shoot me with sanctified dog poo!"_

"And it will serve you right," Sam said casually, with no sympathy whatsoever.

"I'll stop the murders," Crowley said hurriedly, "We can make a deal, boys, ha ha ha, after all, it's what I do best, King of the Crossroads and all that, so, I stop the murders happening, and you don't tell Bobby, yes?"

"I aint makin' a deal with you," sneered Dean, "I am NOT kissin' you – I'll get mo rash!"

"But I might be prepared to make a deal," suggested Sam, the tone reminiscent of a DPP lawyer dangling a plea bargain in front of an offender on a felony, "If you are willing to stop trying to stockpile popularity – stop these conferences, stop performing the spell, and the murders will just stop, too."

Crowley gave Sam a long look. "If I agree to your terms, how do you propose to stop Miss January here blabbing?" he demanded.

"Oh, I'm not offering to keep this quiet from Bobby," Sam beamed sunnily, taking out his phone, "Because he'll find out. He'll want a debrief on this Hunt."

"Then you have nothing to offer, no bargaining power," Crowley snapped.

"Oh, but I think I do." Sam tapped at his phone, and turned it to show the matronly demon. "You see, if you do not stop these conferences, the spells, and hence the murders, immediately, I will summon a crossroads demon. And show it this picture." He held his phone out. "This lovely picture of the 'King of Hell', in demonic drag."

Crowley gazed at him steadily. "It's just a meatsuit, Jolly Green," he said carefully. "The outside of the vehicle isn't that important, it's what's under the hood and who's driving that counts."

"Yeah, that could be the case," Sam acknowledged. "Because if it really mattered, you might've chosen a 'vehicle' with more hair on the head to start with."

"And for this one, you might've picked one with less hair on its lip," added Dean, as Crowley let out a small yip of outrage.

"But, not only will I provide them with these high-def images," Sam tapped at the phone, displaying a string of text, "I will also give them… this."

"What is that?" asked Crowley dismissively, "Are you trying some techno-pagan working online? They can't get it to work, dear boy, Orgle's tried to explain it to me – something about the stability of the medium, virtual ley lines, zero-dimensional energies, and all manner of jargon – the message I took away from it is that if you try spell-casting over the internet, then all the electrons get so frightened they jump on their megacycles and ride away…"

"Oh, it isn't any spell," Sam beamed, "It's a link. To a site. To a fanfiction site. Where a person named 'Bobby's Bird' has written some lovely gen fics, heart-warming they are, about a grumpy old Hunter, well, he doesn't do too much actual Hunting any more, but he's a Man of Knowledge, and a demon, who's lonely at the top of a pile of shit, and against all odds, these two, this odd couple, this Felix and Oscar, this Tango and Cash, this Gimli and Legolas, they find they have more in common than they thought they did, they find common ground, and, incredibly, a friendship forms, and ultimately bromance blossoms…"

The expression of utter horror on Crowley's face was that of a reality TV wannabe being told that from now on people would not be allowed onto television unless they had already proven that they had a talent or they had something intelligent and worthwhile to say. "You… you wouldn't," he stuttered.

"Oh, he would," Dean beamed as widely as his brother.

"I've got 'em saved as pdfs, so they're easy to download," Sam added. "Just in case you were thinking of shutting down the conference servers. And the younger demons, they'll be able to read 'em on their iThings, I know how much they love their electronics…"

"You can't do that!" Crowley spluttered, "They'll, they'll…"

"Laugh at you?" suggested Dean in his most helpful tone. "Ridicule you? Look at you with even more contempt? Call you a Hunter's Pet? Generally think that maybe you aint such a hard case after all, you're just as soft and cuddly as your Uncle Crowley meatsuit looks?" He stared hard at Crowley. "Start thinkin' that perhaps you aint a fit and proper person to be runnin' Hell?"

"It's a good point," Sam nodded, "After all, entertaining fantasies about running off to Venice to check out a museum in the company of Bobby Singer probably constitutes some sort of violation of the Mission Statement, Vision Statement, Values and Code Of Conduct of Hell, all at once."

Crowley slumped with defeat, and glowered at them. "Words cannot express the deep, abiding, and murderous loathing I harbour for both of you," he muttered.

"Rest assured that the feeling is mutual," Dean assured him, "Even RJ hates you, right little guy?"

RJ blew a raspberry at Crowley, and then, without warning, wriggled in his father's arms, fingers twitching as he reached avidly for the King of Hell's magnificent bosom…

"Titi!"

"So, you've been warned, Miss Fearguson," said Dean, as Crowley let out a shriek and grabbed at his chest in pain, "Knock it off, and maybe Bobby won't put too many Anti-Demon rounds into you next time he sees you. Now, why don't you make like a good little vulture, and flock off?"

"Well, I would," Crowley said through clenched teeth, "But I am temporarily translocationally inconvenienced by having TWO COCKAPOO-ED PART HELLHOUNDS HANGING ON TO ME!"

Both dogs, eyes glowing fiery coal-red, still had their teeth embedded in Crowley's skirt, where they had been growling and yanking at the fabric since they'd sniffed him out and grabbed him.

It was a well-tailored outfit, but it was no match for two part-Hellhounds, even in Cockapoo suits.

There was a final, prolonged sound of splitting seams and tearing fabric as the skirt panelling separated from the waistband…

"Oh." Dean's eyebrows shot up. "Really, Crowley? Black lace?"

Clutching at his chest, his mangled skirt and the tattered remains of his shredded dignity, the King of Hell let out one final shriek, and disappeared.

* * *

Alfie-Con is turning into the home straight; go little plot bunny, go!


	30. Chapter 29

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

Job done, the Winchesters were making plans to head back to South Dakota the next day – the timing on the spell meant that they could look forward to it expiring the day after that. Sam made a point of reminding Dean of that when they were unexpectedly forced to spend an extra day in Chicago.

"Only one more day to go as a woman, Dean," he said as cheerfully as he could manage, returning from his latest supply run.

Dean lay on his bed, wearing a pair of track pants and Sam's hoodie, curled into the foetal position, and moaned. "I'll be dead by then," he droned unhappily, "Oh, God, why can't I just die now?"

The dogs were curled into Deans' body front and back, and RJ sat on the bed next to him, occasionally reaching out to pat his feminized father comfortingly. "Ow," he said sympathetically, offering Stanley the well-sucked knit toy honey badger by way of consolation.

Dean produced a wobbly smile for his son. "Thanks, little dude," he quavered, "But I need something a lot stronger than kid spit for this." He took a flask of JD from under the pillow. "Did you get me more booze?"

"You _don't_ need booze, Dean," Sam tried not to roll his eyes.

"I_ do_ need booze, Sam," his big brother protested in a breaking voice, "I need booze! I need chocolate! I need heavy duty opiates, I need drugs! I need to spend a week in a coma until this is done…"

Sam bit down on his temper as he filled the kettle in the kitchenette, and set it to boil. "I got you something specific for your, uh, trouble," he handed over a blister pack. "So, take two of those now, and…"

With a pitiful moan, Dean popped six out of the packaging and washed them down with JD. He lay back with a groan. "How long will it take for those to kill me?"

"They're not supposed to kill you, Dean," Sam tried but failed miserably to keep the _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) off his face. "It's an analgesic with anti-inflammatory properties, including downregulation of prostaglandins, which contribute to the cramping. Besides which, given the hammering your liver has been taking since you were sixteen, if it hasn't given up and keeled over by now, then hey, a little thing like acetaminophen overdose won't worry it."

"It has to kill me," Dean moaned miserably, "The only way for something that feels this bad to end is in death, pain and despair and death." He sniffled. "You'll look after RJ for me, won't you?" he said in a hitching voice, "And RJ, you'll look after Uncle Sammy when I'm gone? Tell Bobby I said he's been awesome, and he can have my Desert Eagle and my jacket and my Busty Asian Beauties, and you'd better look after my car until RJ's old enough to drive her or I'll come back and haunt you…"

"Look, I think you might be over-reacting to this," Sam said as patiently as he could, "It's a perfectly normal aspect of healthy adult female physiology."

Dean glared at his brother. "Don't you DARE try to tell me this is NORMAL!" he hissed angrily, sounding like he was on the verge of tears, "It feels like I'm re-enactin' the chest-burster scene from the first 'Alien' movie, only this is worse!" He glowered resentfully. "If you're boilin' the kettle to try to make me some sissy tea from grass clippings and hippies' toenails, I warn you, you'll fuckin' wear it…"

"Now who's PMSing?" demanded Sam, with a wince of his own.

"I'm not PMSing!" snapped Dean, "I'm actually MSing, okay?"

"The kettle is for the hot water bottles," Sam said through clenched teeth. "And don't knock the tea, I got some…"

"Fuck that shit," Dean growled, "Unless it's laced with pot, I don't want to consume vegetable matter in any way shape or form! Give me saturated fat, refined carbs and empty calories!"

Muttering a brief prayer to whatever saint it was who offered assistance to those beset by drama queens, Sam filled the hot water bottles, wrapped them in towels, and went back to the bed.

"Here, put this one in front, and this one on your back…"

"I feel really terrible, Sam," Dean moaned.

"Yeah, it's not much fun," agreed Sam, lowering himself to the floor. "I got a new appreciation for what women have to put up with."

Dean glared at him as he pushed up onto all fours. What the fuck are you doing?"

"Marjaryasana," replied Sam, letting out a little sigh of relief as he flexed his spine outwards. "The cat pose."

"Cat pose?" Dean yelped. "What the hell is that?"

"It's a yoga posture," Sam replied, exhaling and sliding into bhujangasana, the cobra pose. "It can be very helpful for this sort of discomfort."

"Discomfort?" Dean echoed incredulously. "Did you just use the word 'discomfort' to describe what's happening to me?"

"Hey, it's happening to me, too!" Sam shot back.

"This is not discomfort, Sam!" Dean shrilled, "This is like having your guts ripped out through your ass!"

"Well, get down here with me and try this," Sam suggested, stretching up and back into the camel pose.

"Where the fuck did you pick up this hippy drippy New Age crap?" demanded Dean.

"From Jess," Sam replied, "I used to do these with her – they were good for my back too, if I'd been spending lots of time sitting down reading or typing."

"Huh," grunted Dean, "Why does that not surprise me, you're such a girl." He pouted. "I'm probably suffering more than you, because I'm a more womanly woman than you."

"Or, maybe because you're just more insufferable than I am," countered Sam.

"This is all your fault!" Dean snapped.

Sam knelt up again. "What?" he demanded. "Dean, how the _fuck _is this _my_ fault?"

"I warned you," Dean scowled, clutching his hot water bottle and wincing, "I warned you, if we womanised ourselves and this happened there would be pain, and horror, and it would be worse than death…"

"It's just unfortunate timing!" Sam spat in exasperation, "We've been women for a week, and it just kind of happened!"

"It would never have happened if you weren't such an emo little bitch to start with!" accused Dean.

"What?"

"You heard me!" Dean shrilled, "You've been PMSing since we started this job! You've been PMSing so hard, your hormones and shit have dragged me into synchronising with you!"

"_Huh?"_

"You forced your cycle onto me, Sam!"

"Dean that's ridiculous!"

"Your rampant emo hormones grabbed hold of mine, and dragged me alone for the ride!" sobbed Dean, "You did this to me!" With a wail, he grabbed hold of Stanley, buried his face in the toy, and cried.

Dean complained and whined and railed for another twenty minutes or so until the Midol formulation kicked in – they might not have had any opiates in them, but there was an antihistamine and Dean had taken six.

RJ patted his gently snoring father's hair. "Meh," he pronounced, managing to put into that one syllable all the incomprehension that Man can feel when confronted with the more disruptive aspects of That Particular Feminine Mystery.

"I got nothin', dude," shrugged Sam to his nephew, "I guess that the rest of fem!Dean is so, well, overtly female, this part was bound to be, uh, intense, too." He glanced at the clock. "It won't be long now," he said, picking up RJ to start readying the child for bed, "We'll be back to ourselves again tomorrow. And your Dad will be less hormonal." He gave his brother a fond glance. "Well, he'll be just as annoying, but less hormonal, so I'll take that as a win."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam knew it as soon as he woke the next morning: he'd gone to bed swimming in one of his own tees and a pair of sweat pants, and now they fit and he was too long for the bed. He was himself again.

"Hey, Sammy," he heard his brother say, rolling over to see Dean's grinning face. "Welcome back to manhood."

"Yeah," Sam smiled back, "Femaleness is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there. Not so long as there are bras."

"Well, we can salt and burn 'em when we get back to Bobby's," Dean said cheerfully, swinging his legs out of his bed and grabbing up some clothes. "I call first on the shower."

"Knock yourself out," grunted Sam, yawning and taking his time to get up, enjoying the feeling of stretching his own proper body. He glanced down at the floor, where the dogs were once more their own male, Rottweiler-shaped selves. "Welcome back, guys," he murmured, as they thumped their tails on the floor at him. "Hey, watch RJ for me," he instructed as the boy began to stir, "He'll be wanting changing and feeding, and if we can get a head start on breakfast, we can minimise the amount of outraged screaming…"

As if in response to the suggestion of outraged screaming, it started in the bathroom.

Sam had his gun in his hand and had burst through the door before his brother had time to draw breath to scream again. "Dean!" he yelped, looking around for the threat. "What?"

There was nothing in there except Dean, wearing a towel around his waist, and he turned a white-faced look of horror to his brother. "It's… it's… "

"Uh, yeah?" Sam looked around the bathroom, seeing nothing particularly threatening if you didn't count the unwashed shirt that Dean had taken with him. "What's the problem, bro?"

Dean's expression went from horror back to outrage. "What's the problem?" he repeated, "What's the problem? I'll tell you what the problem is, Sam." He thrust a foot at Sam. "That right there is the problem!"

Sam dutifully inspected the offending appendage. "It's your foot," he announced.

"It's my leg, Sam!" Dean snapped, waggling the limb, "My leg!"

"Yeah, your foot is attached to your leg," agreed Sam, "It's still there." He inspected it again. "It doesn't seem to be, uh, injured."

"It's not injured Sam," Dean railed, "If it was injured, I could bandage it, or stitch it up!" He looked expectantly at his little brother.

"Okaaaay, so, not injured," mused Sam, "Uh, you're gonna have to help me out here, bro. What exactly is wrong?"

Disbelief suffusing his features, Dean smacked Sam in the arm. "I'll tell you what's wrong, since you're blind as a bat! It's bare, that's what's wrong!"

"What? It's…" Sam peered at the shin being thrust at him once more. "Oh. Oh."

His brother was right. There was not a single hair to be seen. The skin was completely smooth, the follicles empty, the hair having been plucked from each of them less than a week earlier.

"Oh," he straightened up with a mixture of relief and annoyance, "It's just your leg hair. You had your legs waxed."

"I had my female legs waxed," Dean corrected, "Because women gettin' waxed is cool. But men, not so much. And now I'm male me again – so, where's the hair?"

With a sigh, Sam decided that there was no point in taking Dean to task over his appalling stereotyping and crude assumptions about a person based on whether they chose to defoliate or not, regardless of gender. "Well, male or, uh, womanised, they were your legs," he said, "But don't worry, leg hair grows back."

Dean's face was haunted. "It's not just my legs, Sam," he muttered, raising an arm to reveal a perfectly epilated armpit. "It's all gone!"

"Oh." Sam blinked. "Well, that'll grow back too, bro, you really don't have anything to worry about…"

"Sam, you aint listenin'," Dean's voice held an edge of hysteria, "I _said_, it's _all_ gone!"

"Yeah, you said, I heard you," Sam rolled his eyes, "And I don't think you need to…" he stopped, and looked into his brother's harrowed face. Then followed his gaze as Dean's eyes travelled south…

Sam felt his own eyes bug. "You mean…" he swallowed. "You had, I mean, when you were Dee, you had it… _seriously_?"

"It's, it's…" words failed Dean. "It's not… right!"

"You seem to think it's a good look on women," Sam pointed out.

"On women, yeah," nodded Dean, "But not on men! It looks, it looks…." He turned a despairing face to his brother.

"What? Bare?" provided Sam earnestly. "Exposed? Naked? All out there?"

"What am I gonna do, Sam?"

"Oh for fuck's sake Dean, just wait!" snapped Sam. "It's hair! Like all hair, it will grow back!"

"But when?" wailed Dean, "When will it grow back?"

"I don't know!" yapped Sam in annoyance. "A few weeks, I guess, how should I know? I've never waxed my legs, or my pits or, uh, you know, there…"

Dean sank onto the small bathroom stool with a groan of despair. "This is a disaster," he moaned, "A total, total disaster."

"Don't be such a princess," Sam snapped, "It's not permanent."

"Weeks?" Dean sounded horrified. "I gotta wait weeks?"

"Wait for what?" asked Sam.

"For sex, that's what!" Dean was a picture of misery. "The Living Sex God can NOT go out lookin' to hook up for beautiful natural acts in this state of, of, of clear felling!"

"Why not?" Sam wanted to know.

"Because, what sort of a man would, you know, go, uh, you know…"

"Brazilian beach versus Amazonian rainforest?" Sam supplied helpfully.

"Yeah! No! You know what I mean!" growled Dean.

"Well, some of 'em must," Sam shrugged, "I mean, there's a market for male waxing, right? And if there weren't men who wanted it, salons wouldn't offer it, right? So, you just find a girl who likes the whole, uh, groomed look. Some of them obviously like it," he added.

"They do?" Dean sounded doubtful.

"It's not necessarily weird," Sam said reassuringly. "They'll just think, hey, he's a metrosexual, he's a guy who takes care of himself."

"Oh." A small smile crossed Dean's face. "You think?"

"Sure, bro," Sam gave his brother a reassuring smile. "It'll be fine. No drama."

Dean let out a long breath. "Okay," he said, sounding relieved. "Well, maybe it aint so bad after all."

"Course not," Sam agreed, heading out of the bathroom. Then, just as he reached the door, he turned. "Either that, or they'll just assume that you work as a drag queen or a porn actor."

"Bitch!"

* * *

Oh dear, I'm not sure what would be worse for Sam, listening to Dean complain about regrowth for the next four weeks, or Dean deciding he likes the look and sticking with it, forever trying to convince his little brother to try it just once...

Alfie-Con is thundering towards the finish line - go, little plot bunny! Shake your review pom-poms to get him there! (Short skirts and leg waxing completely optional.)


	31. Chapter The Last

Wow, Alfie-Con is seriously sprinting for the finish line - he just dictated the last chapter. So now, my options are:

A) Sit on it for a while, as a strategy to get more reviews because if I put two chapters up together people are tempted to write one review for both

OR

B) Put this chapter up right away, and ask the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In of the Jimiverse to take the time to review both chapters.

Knowing that some Denizens have the same sort of difficulty with delayed gratification as Dean, I am going with Option B. So, here's the last chapter - please pander to my sad, sad, pathetic review addiction, and leave me separate reviews for the previous chapter as well as this one.

And now, onward to the final stomping of the plot-bunny...

* * *

**Chapter The Last**

Once they were on the road, headed for Singer Salvage, Dean quickly recovered from his deforestation despair and reverted to his irrepressibly annoyingly cheerful self. As the Impala rumbled back towards Singer Salvage, he was singing along with his selection of music, drumming on the steering wheel, and stuffing his face with snacks as he drove.

"You're cheerful," observed Sam. "For a guy who's convinced he's gotta go without for a few weeks."

"What's not to be cheerful about?" Dean grinned at his brother. "Job's done, murders stopped, women saved, bad guy sent crying back to Hell, and I'm my awesome self again. I call that a win. Plus, we got an awesome story to tell Bobby."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," smiled Sam.

"Plus, I think I might've over-reacted just a bit," Dean added judiciously. "I'm sure the Living Sex God has nothing to worry about. In fact," he waggled his eyebrows, "In the shower, I couldn't help but notice that it felt kind of…"

"If you finish that sentence," Sam growled, "I will finish you."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it," Dean beamed. "And, of course, I know I'm more popular than you," he humphed with satisfaction.

"Huh?"

"I'm more popular than you," Dean repeated, "I got two doilies. You only got one. Therefore, I'm more popular than you, and a better writer than you."

"Hey, hold on," Sam stated firmly, "Just because you got two doilies doesn't mean you were a better writer."

"Yeah, it does," Dean countered.

"No, it doesn't. You were best at pandering to the lowest common denominator to get upvotes. And only after that spell improved your writing from appalling to merely bad. That's not the same as being a good writer."

"Okay, then, we'll ask the mirror," Dean stipulated. Sam fished it out, and opened it. "Okay, so the mirror will tell you just how awesome I am. Ahem. Mirror mirror, make the call, who's the wincest of them all?"

"Dean, what the fuck?" squawked Sam. "Wincest?"

"He knows what I mean," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Whose writing makes people wince the most."

As Sam let out a groan, the mirror fogged, then cleared…

_Sex does not bad writing make,  
But Becky Rosen takes that cake._

"See?" yapped Sam in triumph, "You asked the wrong sort of question. But I happen to agree completely with the mirror on that one. Becky's wincest stories are, well, they are the most winceworthy stories ever to pollute a site."

"Definitely," Dean nodded, "Okay then, let's try again… right. Mirror mirror, tell us true, who writes best out of us two?"

The mirror's mist swirled.

_Dean, your stories were a hit…_

"Aha! You see!" The mirror knows!"

_But really, boy, your writing's shit._

"Yeah, I guess it does," chuckled Sam.

"Shut up!" Dean snapped. "Put it away. Stupid thing."

"I guess it's not totally surprising," Sam decided, "You using insinuations of nudity and sex to get upvoted, because you're such a man-whore at the best of times, you've just got the right mind set to give 'em what they want."

"Bitch."

By the time the returned to the yard, Bobby had returned from his own Hunt, and as they explained the nature of the job they'd just finished, he shook his head, glowered, and used the word 'idjit' with extreme prejudice.

"I'm up to the Mark VII rounds," he growled with a small amount of anticipation, "And next time I see that asshat, I may just test 'em out on His Majesty's schemin' ass."

After lunch, Dean decided to head out to one of the sheds, where he was soon submerged in the Zen of attempting to coax an elderly engine back to life. He was contemplating a timing chain when he heard Sam's footsteps, and popped out from under the hood. "Hey, Sammy, what's up?"

Sam's expression was unreadable. "There's… somebody who wants to talk to you," he said.

Dean wiped his hands on a shop rag. "Yeah? Who?"

"A guy," the faintest trace of a smile crawled onto Sam's face. "Another Hunter. He wants to ask you about a job."

"Yeah?" Dean looked surprised. "Me? He's not here to ask Bobby?"

"Oh no," Sam assured him, "He wants to talk to you. He's sure that you're the only one who can answer his questions."

Dean smiled. "Well, that aint a complete surprise," he noted, preening a little, "After all, I'm Dean Winchester. Let me clean up a bit, and tell him I'll be right there."

**...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... ...****oooooOOOOOooooo****... **

Sam headed back to the house, where the man in question was talking to Bobby. "He's just gonna clean up," he informed them, "Then he'll be right here."

Then he seated himself on the porch swing, because he wanted to watch this…

It only took Dean a couple of minutes to show up, sauntering through the yard the way a silver-back gorilla makes his way through his patch of rainforest. Sam recognised it immediately, and smiled; his big brother was, inevitably, invoking The Dean Effect.

The Dean Effect was Sam's private term for the way people reacted to Dean whenever he walked into a bar, a room, a meeting, or any new situation. Sam had seen The Dean Effect more times than he cared to count; it was an effect that Dean had been having since his voice broke, and frankly, he thought his big brother enjoyed it.

Basically, it made people stop, pause in what they were doing, and look at him, because everything about him screamed Alpha male.

False modesty sucked, in Dean's opinion – he was an attractive guy, and he knew it. He had a combination of a face that bordered on pretty and a body that had been honed and hardened by Hunting; on top of that, he exuded an easy ambiance of masculinity and confidence in himself, a combination hinting at charm, danger, protection, strength, fun and bloody violence.

Oh, he could damp it down, or turn it up, as the occasion demanded – it depended on whether he wanted to charm a woman out of information or her clothing, or whether he wanted to provoke a guy to confide in him or try to kill him, but it oozed from him at all times, like nectar from a dark brooding bloom or venom dripping from a grinning dragon's fangs. He was Dean Winchester, he was a Hunter, a fucking good one, he was the Living Sex God, and he'd bedded more women and beaten more men than anybody in any place he walked into, and it was all there for anybody to read, in his easy, come-hither, dangerous smile, in the loose and confident way he moved, in the way he just was himself.

It made women smile, and twirl their hair around their fingers, lick their lips, pout and lower their lashes, and wonder just what sort of mayhem that body might be capable of, and think that it might be fun to get him alone in the bedroom and find out.

It made men realise that they were out-classed, out-gunned, out-manned in every way that was possible, and so long as Dean was there, no woman could truly have her full attention on anybody else. It made them resent him, and either defer to him or want to punch him.

Yup, Sam really, really wanted to watch this meeting…

"Hey," Dean called out, seeing the man with Bobby turn to face him, "Sorry about the wait, what can I…"

His voice and his feet stuttered to a halt.

The guy who sauntered down the porch stairs did so as if he owned them. He moved in a confident but non-committal way, a predator who hadn't quite decided whether he wanted to buy you a beer or tear you apart and eat the pieces without even chewing. He was built like a blacksmith – he'd clearly never set foot in a gym, but well-used muscles sculpted by his genes and his life bunched in his tattooed arms, and across wide shoulders, biceps straining at the sleeves of his shirt. His face was ruggedly handsome in a way that Dean's fine features could not match, with a strong jaw and clear grey eyes, long hair pulled back into a braid that did nothing to take away from his overt masculinity: if anything, it made him look like a viking, or maybe a god from an ancient pantheon – if he'd turned up on the set of _Troy_ or _The Avengers_, the producers would've taken one look at him and cast him as Achilles or Thor, and Brad Pitt and Chris Hemsworth would've gone home sobbing about how puny and ugly his very presence made them feel.

He made his way down the stairs and across the yard, where he looked down – oh yeah, he was a tall one – he looked down at Dean.

Dean looked up, speechless, as the newcomer smiled a dangerous, threatening smile that was not so much a smile as a baring of teeth.

Sam, however, genuinely grinned, savouring the moment. This was the very first time that Dean had ever experienced The Dean Effect _the other way around._

Dean's mouth worked a couple of times, as his fists clenched. "Who the fuck…"

"Gday, Dean," the other Hunter said, the thick northern Australian accent clear in the deep voice that could've rumbled seductively as easily as it growled in anger, "Sorry if I startled you, but, well, frankly, I haven't been feeling completely myself for the last week or so."

Dean's eyes bugged. "What the… Ronnie?"

"Well, yeah. On the inside, at any rate." Ronnie stepped back, and spread her (or should it be 'his'?) arms wide. "But at least I haven't had to mess with my name. So, what do you think?" She turned on the spot, then offered Dean a dangerously friendly smile.

"Oh, er, well," Dean stammered, waving a hand at the mannified she-werewolf, "You're, uh, yeah, you're a, uh," he paused, and drew himself up with considerable dignity. "I am secure enough in my masculinity to acknowledge that you are a very attractive man, Ronnie."

She let her arms fall to her sides. "I am, aren't I?" she went on in that dangerously friendly voice. "Of course, it didn't strike me as any sort of positive thing, when I woke up last week and suddenly found out, wa-hey, I'm down one oyster, and up two kiwis and a banana."

"Oh, er, yeah, about that," Dean said sheepishly.

"It's okay," Ronnie held up a hand to forestall him. "Sam explained to me what you did. How you used the leftovers of a spell for something completely outside of what it was meant for, to cast a transformation on somebody who didn't ask for it, didn't want it, and didn't even know about it. Because there's nothing wrong with that, is there? Not a chance that anything could possibly go wrong."

"Well," managed Dean, "Look, I thought, you know, it was makin' Sam and me into attractive women, and I thought, hey, you say it yourself, you aint exactly an oil painting…"

"And so, you decided to use the remnants of a spell on me," Ronnie finished for him. "The remnants of a spell to make attractive women out of men. Turn man into attractive woman. Man. To attractive woman. Man. To. Woman. Do you see the small detail you might've missed?"

"Er," went Dean.

Ronnie sighed, and looked wistful. "If nothing else, it's been educational," she mused. "I mean, given the way the spell was formulated – work with what you've got and what might've been, Yiayia Panagopoulos is a wise woman – I now know what my mother was trying to do, when she tried to give her husband a boy for his first born. This is what she wanted to give my father, this son. If Daddy just could've given me a Y-chromosome instead of an X, well, whammo."

"Whammo?" queried Dean.

"Whammo," confirmed Ronnie. "Goodbye Samantha hello Sam, good by Joanne hello Joe, goodbye Louise hello Lou." The scarred face grinned, and Dean couldn't help but notice how the long-faded claw marks actually conspired to make male!Ronnie look even more devilishly handsome, like the mystique of a duelling scar. "This would've been me. Ronald Shepherd. And everything that makes me such an unattractive woman would've made me, well, the magnificent specimen you see before you."

"Oh, yeah, yeah," Dean nodded. "Uh, yeah, magnificent. Very, uh, manly, very… yeah."

"It has made social interactions somewhat, shall we say, awkward," Ronnie added. "For some reason, every time I try to go into a bar, I end up surrounded by women, who make the most _forward_ propositions."

"Oh, er, really?" Dean smiled wanly.

Yes. But on the upside, there's been no end of men who want to start fights with me," she said. "And, if I'm honest, that has been kind of fun."

"Oh, uh, that's, uh, that's good," Dean nodded earnestly.

"Oh, this ruggedly handsome exterior isn't all," Ronnie went on earnestly, "It's all fully functional. Hell, it scared me the first time I saw it." She reached casually for her fly. "Seriously, none of those women had any idea what they might've been letting themselves in for, this junk is huge…"

Dean let out a scream that Sam didn't think he should've been able to manage now that he was male once more. "Saaaaaaam! Bobbyyyyyyyyy!"

"You made this bed, you lie in it," growled Bobby, "You're on your own, son."

Ronnie relented, and stopped fiddling with the zipper. "Well, okay, I don't want to scare you," she said generously. "But the whole man thing? I'm not sure it's really me." she stared hard at Dean. "But while I've got it, I wonder if I might as well as use it…"

"Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Dean yapped, "I was tryin' to help, I really was! I wanted to do something nice for you!"

"We know what good intentions pave the way to," called Sam, smiling sunnily at his brother's discomfiture.

"Shut up!" Dean yelped, "Look, it only lasts for a week, so you'll snap back to yourself in your sleep in a day or two, honest, so, uh," he waved a hand uncertainly, "So you won't be doin' your Thor impression for too much longer."

"Oh, don't you start," Ronnie rolled her eyes, "Andrew and Connor made me a papier mache hammer, and he kept speaking German to me. He and the kids think this is the funniest thing since the last time a politician claimed to be telling the truth. When he saw what had happened, he nearly busted something laughing."

"Yeah, well, he's a cool guy," Dean said, "He can see the funny side."

"Oh, he did," Ronnie smiled beautifully, "He definitely saw the funny side. He said I made him feel scrawny. And he didn't know how right he was, because he kept laughing, right up until the point I did this."

With that, she kicked off her boots and shucked effortlessly out of her clothing before shapeshifting.

Dean let out that little scream again.

Ronnie as a female was short when she took her wolf form, even for she-wolf.

But male!Ronnie had been transformed into what she might've been had she been born a male, and the best possible male she could've been at that…

"Whoa," went Sam, taking out his phone to get some pictures as Bobby let out a low whistle. "How big is she?"

"Bigger'n Andrew," Bobby estimated. "Bigger than you were, even, when you spent a lunar month feelin' wolfier than usual."

Dean gawped up at creature before him. It was a male werewolf. And it was _enormous_. Taller than any Old North wolf he'd ever seen, bulging with muscle, it glared down at him, rumbling like an angry earthquake, massive arms flexing as it inspected six-inch claws thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't bother trying to run, bro," suggested Sam, snapping away, "You'll just die tired."

"Bobbyyyyyyyy!" Dean shrieked, "Bobbyyyyyy, do somethiiiiiing!"

"Not much I can do against that, son," said Bobby philosophically, "I suggest that your best course of action will be to apologise."

"I'm sorry!" Dean squeaked at the growling monster before him, "I'm sorry, okay? I really didn't mean to do anything mean! I was tryin' to help, I really was! Can we just try to calm down and not to anything hastyyyiiiEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!"

His voice rose to a shriek as arms like knotted oak logs with paws like gardening forks reached for him.

"You don't think this will attract the neighbours' attention?" asked Sam in a worried tone.

"Nah," Bobby reassured him, "Since we got RJ here, and Connor visitin' sometimes, the Widder Witherspoon has just become used to all sorts of shrieking noises." He turned his head sideways. "And really, kids of any age shrieking all sound pretty much the same."

"I guess," shrugged Sam, satisfied that he had enough pictures. "Speaking of RJ, I'll go check on him, he's usually hungry when he wakes up from his nap."

"You get the kid, I'll get the food," Bobby turned to follow Sam indoors, calling over his shoulder. "Don't do any permanent damage," he instructed, raising his voice over the noise.

Mrs Witherspoon next door didn't come fussing to find out what the racket was all about, and as he went to check on his nephew, Sam marvelled anew at just how knowledgeable Bobby was about so many things.

Not many people could've determined that the noise of children playing loud games would be exactly what it sounded like when a gigantic werewolf grabbed a Hunter by the ankles, held him upside down, and spanked him.

**THE END**

* * *

Hang on... hang on... wait for it...

SQUELCH

And so we stomp yet another plot bunny. Alfie-Con was a bit of a diva, frankly, not nearly as much as Jackie-Joy, but a bit of a princess bunny nonetheless - however, in the end, he came good, got his act together, and gave us a good run to the finish line, with a sprint at the end. Well done, Alfie-Con, and we hope you go wherever it is plot bunnies go after they finish dictating their stories and get stomped. It's possible they retire to stud somewhere, I suppose, which would explain where plot bunnies come from.

So, for now, here in the Jimiverse we've just got Jackie-Joy dictating 'Old Dogs Old Tricks', and hopefully she'll be inspired by Alfie-Con's magnificent recovery and performance.

I'm afraid I had no plans to finish Sam's self-insert story (there was seriously no actual plot at any time, and it seems like it might have far too much angst and not enough crack for my tastes). And as for Dean's AU pirate one, I know there was an imminent naked stroll to the brig, but you cannot seriously want that one - even in the Jimiverse, we do have standards. But who knows, I might get a few more chapters out of 'Supernatural DISCoveries'. Or one of the Denizens may send me another bunny (they're depraved, but they get shit done). And of course, at the end of a Jimiverse story, Das Bus could be lurking around the corner...

So farewell to Alfie-Con; send reviews, and I'll bunch them all together in a suitably ugly vase and put them by his headstone.


End file.
